


You'll Never Leave Me

by DeacyDrowse



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Death, Ghosts, Hurt, Kind of slow, M/M, POV First Person, Roger's POV, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:27:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24524581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeacyDrowse/pseuds/DeacyDrowse
Summary: Roger’s never liked mornings. Up until a week ago, they were getting easier, as there was someone to share them with. Now that someone’s become distant and quieter than ever.And something’s making the mornings worse than Roger ever imagined
Relationships: John Deacon & Brian May & Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor, John Deacon/Roger Taylor
Comments: 17
Kudos: 18





	1. Glass.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *this was originally called Let Me Go and had a crappier summary. I realised Let Me Go sounds like a follow up to the brain fart I did and my summary sounded like my crackfic ones. This was for the three people that liked Let Me Go.*
> 
> This is going to get dark and grisly later on. And in all honesty, I questioned my sanity as I wrote the plot. This is new territory for me and my first attempt at horro- Why am I saying all this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These warnings are for the whole work, so at least one will happen in each chapter. I also didn't want too many tags.
> 
> WARNINGS: Swearing and sex references. Injury detail, blood, attacks, breakdowns, fire, amateur horror writing, death and general ghosty things.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: This is fiction. I do not wish harm on any characters mentioned or believe they would commit any actions mentioned or have any opinions mentioned.

He not a quiet crier. Quiet the rest of the time but not when he’s crying. 

  
I’d have heard him. Even if he was muffling himself with his, now sodden, pillow. I’d have heard those searing wails and woken up, turned to my left and seen his face shoved into the pillow, his entire body jerking with each sob. He didn’t wake me though. My hand snaking under a cold, wet and crumpled pillow did.   
He can’t have been in here – I’d have heard him. 

  
I drag my fingers across the damp cotton, debating whether or not to go and check on him, wherever he is. I don’t like the thought of him being alone, especially not here. Not in the mornings.

  
Then there’s a shatter. Sharp and piercing, ringing through every room. However, it’s not that noise that has me leaping out the bed. Whacking on a discarded pair of boxers, I bolt downstairs towards the cry, a door slamming shut somewhere.

  
He never shouts. No, that wasn’t a shout - it was a scream. A pained, desperate scream. It happens again as I enter our lounge. It was the kitchen door that slammed. I grab the handle, my hand slithering across the metal from the sweat, and burst through the door. It’s worse than I thought.

  
White pyjama bottoms turn red, glinting shards puncturing the fabric as beads of scarlet drop onto the laminate. One hand rests in the broken glass on the floor, the other hovering in the air, red trails running down his front. Puffy eyes flick between the lacerated palm and me as I stand frozen in the doorway, fixated on the boy knelt in the corner. He won’t look at me.

  
‘I... I’m sorry.’ 

  
I hiccup at how weak his voice sounds, glancing down at the bloodied glass on the floor. 

  
‘Don’t move.’ I gesture for him to stay calm and step over, the trembling boy cowering back. The glass scrapes against the floor, more blood gushing out. ‘Hey, c’mon honey I’m not angry.’

  
He shakes his head, fearful eyes burning into me. I tiptoe around the edge of the shards and crouch next to him, reaching over. He just stares at my hand.

  
‘Let’s get you away from the glass.’ I take his wrist, warm red liquid seeping in-between my fingers. ‘Just get away from the glass.’

  
He takes his hand out of the mess on the floor, a fragment dripping with blood clattering onto the ground, leaving behind a gash on his palm. Encouraging him to stay calm, I stand again, tugging gently on his arm. After taking my other hand, he stands too, slipping slightly on the crimson puddle as he winces. Then he lets go of me and steps around the glass, blood running steadily from his shaking legs. I place a hand on his shoulder, for support, the brunette flinching.

  
‘It’s still me. Still Roger.’ I try to smile, as I walk through the bloody trail my partner is leaving. ‘Just go sit on the sofa and I’ll get the first aid kit and clean up. I’ll call Freddie and tell-’

  
‘No!’ He spins around, backing into the living room. ‘I can go in later. I don’t think sh-’ He squeals, untangling his long fingers from his hair. Guess a few strands got into the cuts. ‘I don’t think any shards got properly-’

  
‘No, sit down, please.’ I rush over to the sofa. ‘Please!’

  
Breaths heavy, he shuffles over, grey eyes not leaving me as he sits. I let out a sigh and quickly peck his forehead before running out to get the first aid kit. I slowly approach him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. 

  
‘Its alright!’ 

  
‘How is it?’ Not looking at me, he cocks his head toward the kitchen. ‘It was that stupid novelty glass Freddie got us last Christmas. Y’know that massive one at the back of the cupboard.’

  
‘How did that get out?’ I shiver, the room suddenly going cold.

  
‘Went in to get a... normal glass, then just....’

  
‘What?’ I perch next to him, rubbing his back, gently. ‘Tell me, please.’

  
‘You’ll hate me.’ I sniff, letting out a gasp.

  
‘No, I could never. You know I couldn’t! Don’t you?’ I don’t get an answer. ‘You know I... you know what you mean to me.’

  
‘Stop talking, Roger.’ He snaps as I study the cuts on his hand. I decide to listen and keep my mouth shut, focusing instead on sorting this hand out. There’s only one or two little bits of glass in there, but that’s not my biggest worry.

  
‘Can I talk to you for medical reasons?’ I ask, just recieving a nod. ‘Can you move-’

  
There’s a bang upstairs. Not something falling over, not a door slamming – something exploding.

  
I bolt out the room towards the bang, faint hissing and crackling getting louder. Do I need to look? 

  
‘Roger, stay away!’

  
‘Don’t move.’ I yell as I reach the landing, heading straight to our bedroom. My fears are confirmed. ‘Where’s the extinguisher?’

‘Wait!’  
My eyes are glued to the burning bed infront of me, where I’d been not even ten minutes ago. Smoke billows up, creeping towards me, a sheen of sweat already covering my skin. Behind me, there’s footsteps and I glance round, glaring at the boy limping up the stairs.

  
‘I said don’t move!’ I sigh, looking back to the fire, just as it flares up. Footsteps pound behind me and I stumble backwards, hoping he’ll catch me. Soft, cold hands press into my back as the creaky stair whines.

Then I’m pushed. 

Pushed into the bedroom, the edge of the bedside cabinet slamming against my bare stomach. Outside there’s wails and I collapse to the floor, clutching my middle. Gasping, I roll onto my back, met by a dense cloud of smoke descending onto me. 

‘ROGER _OPEN THE DOOR_!’ I scramble to my feet, backing away from the rising flames and grab the handle. My hand slides straight off it. ‘ROGER! I’M _SORRY_!’ The handle shakes as his words merge into one hysterical scream.

‘Get the extinguisher.’ I finally grasp the handle, jiggling it firmly. ‘Wait, I _can’t_ \- I CAN’T GET OUT!’

It won’t turn, at least not as far as I need. The heat is rising, the smoke getting thicker as I wrestle with the door, pulling as hard as I can. It’s 8 in the morning - I’m weak. 

  
‘Can you kick it in?’ I yell, banging on the door. Frantic scratches on the other side join the shouts and cries. ‘I can’t-’ 

  
Glancing at the flames again, I drive my knee into the doorknob, sweat and tears dripping onto the carpet. I step back and whack the handle with my heel, screeching as my head goes fuzzy. The doorknob won’t budge. Grunting, I kick it again. Knee it again. Give everything i have left until it comes loose. I grab the handle, pulling it off the door and slam my foot against the hole its left.

  
‘I’VE GOT IT.’ There’s a small thunk outside and I claw the door open, falling to the ground. Sniffing and gasping, I drag myself over to the cupboard and take out the fire extinguisher. My arms burn as I go back to the room, pulling the pin out.

  
After the flames have been replaced by a mountain of white foam, I drop to my knees, crawling over to the stairs. The extinguisher rolls away, tumbling down, a bloodied hand grabbing it. I can’t see his face, his hair is in the way, but I know it’s probably as stricken as mine.

  
‘I’m out.’ I cough, wiping my nose on my shaking arm. ‘I’m okay.’

  
For the next few moments, I stay on the floor, staring down to the bottom of the stairs where the brunette is sat. I don’t want to look at the charred bed across from me, the smoke still thick and creeping over. My body’s stopped working, opening a window’s sounds impossible.

  
He didn’t push me, did he? No, that’s not John – not the John i know. No. It’s something else, like so much in this house. 

  
Then there’s a knock on the door. Not any knock.

  
Brushing his hair out of his face and looking up at me, ashamed almost, my partner takes the keys from their shelf. There’s another knock and he opens the door. I can hear the gasps from up here.

  
‘Deacy, what the fuck happened?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I threw in Dealor because.... why not? And, if you want to stick with this, I’ve got half of the whole thing written up already and will post regulary in the evening (British Summer Time.)


	2. Meeting.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before you regret wasting five minutes reading a chapter – please keep an open mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Ray Foster. Or any characters mentioned in this chapter.  
> I also mean no disrespect for anybody.

Our two bandmates stand in the doorway, shocked. Usually sparkling eyes drop down John’s body, widening when he sees his trouser legs are dripping with blood.

  
‘Darling.’ He reaches for John’s hand, the brunette backing away. Freddie steps through the door, barely able to look. 

  
‘Where’s Rog?’ Brian shuts the door quietly, his gaze meeting mine. ‘You look awful.’ 

  
Freddie and John look up to me as I make my way downstairs, every inch of my body shuddering and aching. 

  
‘There was...’ I cough again, steadying myself on Freddie’s arm. He sniffs, recoiling.

  
‘God, you _stink!’_ He yells, burying his face in his furry sleeve. 

  
‘Fred, there was-’ A wet hand grabs my wrist, John shaking his head at me.

  
‘No.’ He whimpers. ‘Don’t tell them. _Please.’_

  
‘Oh, Deacy.’ Brian slams his hand over his mouth, fixated on the torn hand wrapped around my arm. The bleeding has stopped. I cough again, Freddie still sniffing the air.

  
‘Did you burn something?’ 

  
My arm is tugged firmly as John drops to his knees, letting out a strangled sob. Shoving is face in his hands, screaming again - repetitive and guilt-ridden. I let him pull me down and place my hands on his shoulders, gently shaking him. Freddie joins me, running his hand through John’s hair. Coughing again, I look over to Brian leaning on the wall, hugging his waist and staring at the ground. He’s shivering. 

  
Torn, I turn my attention back to John, Freddie trying to pull his hand down from his face. Then he filches, a drop of blood running onto Freddie's arm. My friend stares down in horror. I take a breath, shaking the youngest again.

  
‘John?’ Bloodshot eyes peer at me from between trembling fingers. They flick between Freddie and I a few times then he stops breathing. His hands drag down his face, flopping onto his lap as he stares directly into my eyes. Face stained scarlet, he finally breathes out.

  
‘I nearly killed you.’ 

  
Freddie freezes, his fingers clenching around my arm. John drops his gaze to his lap as he stands, not daring to look at any of us and wanders back to the lounge. I’d follow but Freddie’s going to cry any second.

  
‘What’s happened to him?’ He gasps. ‘Why does... why?’

  
‘I came downstairs and he was knelt in a load of glass.’ I trail as Brian suddenly turns on his heel and follows John. ‘Then just now I was... trapped in the bedroom.’

  
‘Are you-’

  
‘I’m fine just really tired.’ He nods and gets up, pulling on my arm. One arm over my shoulders, he leads me to the lounge. Relief washes over me when we’re met by quiet – John seeming to have calmed down at last, Brian sat next to him treating the cuts on his shins.

  
‘Doesn’t seem to be any glass left behind.’ He comments, shuddering again. ‘Roger, what happened?’

  
‘Told you already,’ I sigh, leaning on the back of the sofa, one hand on John’s shoulder, ‘walked in, knelt in-’ 

  
‘I nearly killed him.’ John repeats.

  
‘Stop saying that, Deacy.’

‘It’s true.’ I shake my head, his lifeless voice more unsettling than the words. Sure, I was pushed but... it wouldn’t be him. _Couldn’t have been._

  
‘No, John. You didn’t.’ I whisper, glancing at the other two. The bassist says nothing, fixated on something in the corner. ‘The bed was on fire. The door slammed after,’ I hesitate, the cold hands that pressed against my shoulders coming back to me, ‘I couldn’t get out.’

  
I can’t say I was pushed. Can’t drop John in it even more than I already have.

  
‘Is it out now?’ Freddie asks. I nod as he holds back tears. ‘One of you make sure he stays alive. I need a smoke.’ With that he rushes out the room, faint sniffles fading with his footsteps.

Nothing else is said whilst I deal with the wounds, Brian sorting out the broken glass in the other room, getting us a much-needed drink too. A short while later, Freddie comes back in, perching on the table across from the sofa.

‘Deacy, dear.’ He doesn’t look up. ‘This is also to you Roger, do the two of you need a few days off?’ This time, he does get John’s attention.

‘We’re not scheduled for anything for... another month?’

‘We’re meant to have a meeting with a certain Ray Foster in an hour.’ Brian tilts his head. ‘Remember?’

‘No.’ I shrug, the guitarist glaring. 

‘I know _you_ wouldn't, I meant Deacy.’ He snaps. Freddie takes John’s arm, the brunette reluctantly standing.

  
‘I can ask them to reschedule, and you and Rog can recover from... whatever happened.’

  
‘No.’ John pushes past the singer. ‘I’m okay.’

‘No, you’re not.’ I don’t get a response, so resort to jogging after him up the stairs. He stalls before entering the bedroom, flinging the window open, letting out the last of the smoke. I was expecting the entire room to be burnt to a crisp, but no.

The only thing that’s damaged is the bed. Wait no – the right side of the bed. _My_ side. He’s noticed too, he must’ve he notices everything, so i stay quiet.   
He’s guilty enough as it is today.

  
Thankfully, the smell hasn’t got onto our clothes too much and after quickly changing I rush back downstairs. Brian’s waiting for me.

‘What’s going on with you two?’

‘What do you mean?’ I hiss.

‘A week ago, you two were fine! The soppiest, daft idiots ever. Freddie was planning a 'wedding.’’ I look to my feet. ‘Deacy finally relaxed around us, felt like he was part of us. What happened?’

‘I don’t know.’ That’s a lie - there is _something._ But I can’t tell Brian – he’s a too good a friend. I sigh, rubbing my eyes. ‘Just woke up one morning and he was asleep on the sofa. Suddenly wouldn’t talk to me.’

  
‘What did you do?’

‘I... I kind of started getting... _distracted.’_ He glares at me. Could’ve worded that better. ‘No, not like that!’

‘Okay, okay, sorry.’ Freddie motions for Brian to shut up and stands in front of me. 

‘When we get to the meeting – don’t say anything.’ Freddie hisses, wiping something off my cheek. ‘Yeah, John and you come before everything but... if they think something’s wrong with Deacy-’

‘Something clearly is wrong.’ I spin around, glowering at Brian. ‘He locked you in a burning room!’

‘I never said he _pushed_ me.’

  
‘Neither did I.’ Brian jumps as John patters downstairs, his hands covered by his sleeves. I say his sleeves, it’s my sweater. Can’t help but feel a little better at that.

‘Sure you’re okay?’ Freddie asks, voice wavering. All four of us know the answer. ‘Right, let’s not leave Bri’s Jag on its own for too long.’

My partner shuffles over to me, practically cowering behind me as Fred and Brian head outside.

‘Do we have to share with them?’ He mumbles. ‘They must hate me now.’

‘No.’ I turn and pull him into a hug that isn’t returned. ‘They’ll never hate you... and if they do, they’ll have me to answer to.’ Planting a quick kiss on his cheek I pull away. ‘We do have to share the Jag. Brian’s request.’

The car journey’s silent as I sit between John and Freddie in the back, a little confused. Since when has John stopped jumping at the chance to be attached to Freddie’s hip? The older man beside me stares out the window, fiddling with the tassels on his jacket, ignoring the rest of us. He’s still sniffling a bit. I rub his knee, gently bopping my head against his shoulder, earning a small smile. Only small- suppose I’m not the one he needs affection from.

Soho’s busier than usual, the snail’s pace teamed with the broken air conditioning transforming the Jag into a sauna. I’m beginning to stink again, and sweat, I really shouldn’t have worn a jacket. _Blimey, John must be boiling in that sweater_. Just as puddles begin to form in my Converse, we arrive at EMI, the two either side of me tensing. Freddie’s brows furrow as he exits the Jag, glancing up the towering white wall. He slams the door, John jumping at the noise before looking at me, expectant.

  
‘I don’t want to get out into the road.’ He shudders as a modified hatchback roars past. ‘Please?’

There’s a knock on the window.

‘If we’re late...’ Brian motions for us to hurry up and I shuffle over to the door, glaring at him. John follows me, looking back over his shoulder to the road every five seconds.

Miami’s waiting in the reception when we walk in, skimming a few files. He doesn’t look over when Freddie dramatically flops next to him, peering over his shoulder.

‘Morning Freddie.’ He nods. ‘Hand this to Deacy, will you?’ 

The singer takes the papers, hesitantly approaching John. He pulls up his sleeve, the bandage around his hand damp from sweat.

‘What happened to your hand?’

‘No, Jim.’ Brian snaps. _‘No.’_

Humming, our lawyer stands, cocking his head in the direction of the hall. John’s the first to follow, focused more on the papers than where he’s going. _He’s spent enough time on the floor today_. I grit my teeth as we enter the office, trying not to let Ray’s gurning face annoy me too much. That isn’t the worst part of this office though. 

  
‘Good morning, Freddie.’ Paul doesn’t even acknowledge John and I, just walks straight past us and grins at my friend. _My_ friend. 

  
‘We’ve not had a good morning, you tit, shut it.’

‘Now, now, Roger.’ Ray patronises, sending me a warning look over those daft sunglasses. Then his gaze drops to John who’s sat hunched over the files, studying them. ‘Uh... where did you get that?’

  
‘I gave it to him.’ Miami smiles, shutting the office door. ‘Deacy here double checks everything. Don’t want anything to go...’ Ray glares at him, _‘...unnoticed.’_

I perch next to the bassist, leaning over to look at the document. Someone clears their throat; Ray stares at my hand on John’s leg, scrunching his face up. I snatch my hand away, sitting up as Paul marches over to the corner, patting my shoulder and Ray looks down his nose at John and I – like he has done for the past 18 months. Snapping his fingers, he gestures for John to hand the papers over. To mine – and Miami’s – surprise he does, and shrinks back in his seat.

‘From what I’ve heard, last time you let _him_ read a contract you walked out on a perfectly good deal.’

‘That contract left Deacy and Rog sleeping on my sofa for a week.’ Brian sighs, a chuckle coming from the corner.

  
‘Why did you arrive in a Jaguar then? And that’s a _very_ fancy jacket Roger.’

  
‘Can we just, get on with this.’ Freddie interjects, lighting a cigarette much to Brian’s annoyance. The lighter doesn’t work, and Paul dashes over, producing one for him. _MY_ friend smiles at him gratefully, as Ray rabbits about something, the slimy rat that is Paul wandering back to the corner. I take out a cigarette myself, holding it out. He ignores me so I light it myself, taking a drag and blowing the smoke in his direction. Smoke. Shuddering, I stub it out again, John inching away from me. 

  
‘All agreed?’

_Fuck, I didn’t listen to a word Ray was saying._

Brian and Freddie shrug, looking over at John expectantly as Ray leans forward. Usually, John’s the most difficult in meetings, will challenge every word that the pigs behind the desk say and gets us out of a lot of messes. He doesn’t though – like with everything else that’s happened today. He nods, slowly, nudging me. I have no idea what he wants me to do.

‘Right, if Deacy agrees, I agree.’ Freddie smiles, hopping to his feet. ‘Is that all?’

Ray motions for us to leave and Miami opens the door, Paul heading over to Fred and guiding him out. In all honesty, I don’t care for the moustached rodent anymore. My attention has turned to the boy following me out the office, looking to his feet, hiding behind his hair. I place my hand on his back, leaning over to John’s ear.

‘Don’t have to answer but what did we just agree to?’ 

He doesnt answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is appreciated.


	3. Farm.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is that one Ridge/Rockfield Farm fic every Queen writer does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By 'regular updates' I meant, no specific idea on when I will update.

Turns out, I agreed to the four of us being shipped off to the middle of nowhere for a few months to ‘get away from distractions.’ This would’ve been nice. Some time alone, working and reconnecting with John because maybe that’s what we need – a break. He can find himself again and I can get away from the house. Well, whatever is in the house.

  
‘How is he?’ Freddie shoves his last suitcase in the boot. ‘Has he said anything?’

  
‘Cuts have healed enough for him to play again. Said what?’ 

  
‘Anything.’ He brushes down his jacket, a small smile creeping onto his face when he picks off a long cat hair. ‘Think she’ll miss me?’

  
‘Yeah. Don’t worry about them, I think Mary knows how to open a tin of cat food, Freddie.’ I sigh. ‘Also, what do you mean anything?’

‘Just, anything... for instance, asked you why on Earth you’re wearing a fur coat in this weather?’ The singer slams the boot shut. ‘Paul and I are taking this car, you three are in the Jag.’

Oh yes, that’s what I hate about the farm idea. Paul is coming with us.

‘Does he have to?’ I groan, smiling at John as he finally emerges from the house. ‘I want to get back on track with John, not put up with...’

‘Roger, dear, he’s not going to bother with you and Deacy.’ With that he slips into the back of the Rover, Paul running over and shutting the door. 

‘Morning Roger.’ He smiles at me, a stupid smile. ‘How’s John?’

I don’t answer and wander over to the Jaguar, John already waiting in the passenger seat. Guess I’m not sitting next to him then. Instead I open the back door to the seat behind him, huffing when I see a guitar case belted in it. As I lean over to unbuckle it, I’m whacked on the back of the head.

‘Don’t touch.’ Brian snaps. I slam the door, and get in the other side, slipping on the sunglasses I found whilst packing. It’s burning hot today again, but thankfully when I sit down, I’m hit by lovely cool air. Nice that the air conditioning’s back on – and that the radio’s working too. Still wish my coat fitted in the suitcase... 

Despite dodging London’s rush hour traffic jams, the journey still feels like an eternity, especially seeing as none of us say another word. John fell asleep a while ago, bringing his knees to his chest and curling up in his seat, and Brian doesn’t like talking while he’s driving. Freddie seems to be having a nice time in the Rover, the shadow of him in the back window just about visible, one hand over his mouth and his head thrown back – he’s laughing. If he was in the car with anyone else, I’d be happy he’s happy. Not with _him_ though.

Soon the City thins out – less tower blocks and more pretty cottages, the thick, musty air turning cleaner as towns become fields. Then the tarmac turns to gravel, the stench of horseshit flooding into the car as we approach a neat group of farmhouses – their niceness a stark contrast to the smell.

‘We’re staying here?’ I muse, winding the window up. ‘It stinks.’

‘Staying _and_ working.’ Brian adds, eyeing a massive barn. ‘Wait, did they say what kind of farm it is?’

‘No, I thought we were recording an album, not dabbling in agriculture.’ 

  
‘You know what I mean.’ He snaps, braking harshly alongside the Rover, jolting John awake. ‘I’m not staying on a mass murder site.’

‘Don’t be so dramatic.’ I fling the door open, the smell not as bad as at the top of the drive, as Freddie hops out the Rover. I grit my teeth. ‘Nice journey?’

‘Fabulous.’ He smiles, turning around as he stares up at the sky. ‘Not as bad as I thought it’d be.’ 

‘Yeah, if we stay down here.’ I laugh, Freddie humming in confusion. ‘Stinks at the top. Typical British summer – sun comes out and so does the cloud of shit and pollen.’

‘I like the smell of fresh grass actually.’ 

With that, he dashes after Paul, not giving me a chance to question him. 

Ceiling fans whir above us as Paul leads us upstairs, ushering Freddie to ‘the biggest room, o _f course_.’ A cold hand wraps around my wrist, John standing next to me on the top step. As Brian ducks under a low doorframe, Paul turns to us, John snatching his hand away.

‘Now... the landlord is a little suspicious of Freddie and kindly asked if he could refrain from bringing any _male company_ here, so I guess that also-’

  
‘What you’re not letting us share either? There’s only four rooms right?’ I exclaim, slipping my arm around John’s waist, my partner looking to the ground. ‘Where are you going to sleep? Sofa’s not-’

  
‘Freddie said I can sleep on the floor in his room.’ 

  
I let go of John and storm over to the smug faced man across from me, whipping off my glasses.

  
‘You do so much as _breathe_ on him it’ll be the last bloody breath you take.’

  
‘He offered.’ Paul laughs, gesturing to a door on the left. ‘This is yours.’

  
‘Smallest room?’ I guess, sighing with relief when I notice the room next door to mine hasn’t been taken yet. ‘Charming of you to put us next door to one another.’

  
Paul squints at me, then past me and back before bursting out laughing.

  
‘Oh no. That room is yours,’ He looks past me again, ‘John you’re downstairs, to the left and there’s a dark brown door. Through there, down the stairs and that’s-’

‘What the basement?’ I spin around in surprise at John’s voice, the brunette swaying slightly as Paul confirms. He looks down at his free hand, tracing his thumb over his palm. 

  
‘No.’ I turn back to Paul. ‘No, he needs to be with us. If we need to be separate still, stick Bri downstairs! He’s the snorer. Or you and Freddie can go downstairs – that way you’ll be out of earshot.’ He holds his hand up, raising an eyebrow.

‘I think the decision of where John sleeps is down to him and...’ He points past me, smirking, and I look over, shoving my suitcase into Paul’s chest. The stairs creak as I bolt down, reaching the door just as it shuts. I grab the handle, a clicking noise coming from the other side. ‘We gave him the room with the lock – he likes his space, right? A lot of thought went into it, you’ve got a double bed for the _inevitable females.’_

  
‘Shut up!’ He does. I knock on the door, the lock clicking again. It only opens a crack, grey eyes peering at me through the gap. ‘My beds a double, why the hell should we listen to him?’

  
‘I can’t share with you. Got no other choice, have I?’ He shrugs, shuddering a little. ‘Anyway, surely you’d want some time away from me.’

My mouth drops open, the bassist shrinking away from the door. I force it open, damn nearly falling headfirst down the steps as I slip into the room.

‘John, I want to use this time to be with you.’ I cup his cheek. ‘Haven’t you spent enough time away from me for weeks?’

He glares, staring me directly in the eye and shakes off my hand.

‘Excuse me, you never leave me on my own.’ He snaps, backing up. 

‘Only because I want you back. The real you. The John I know and... listen just please share with me and we can use this time to get together again. I’ll try and sort out whatever I’ve done.’

‘Roger, _I’m the issue.’_ His voice cracks, trying not to cry. I reach for his hand. ‘Just... let me go. It’s not worth it.’

‘What do you-’ Before I can finish, someone grabs my coat and I’m pulled out the room. They let go as the door slams, the lock clicking from inside. Sighing, I turn to whoever’s with me, presumably Paul. ‘Yeah, yeah. I won’t stop trying, he’s sharing with me and nothing’s going...’

It’s a miracle I don’t scream - I’m a terrible liar. Shuddering, I run back up the stairs, pretty much slamming my door shut and leap onto the bed. The frame squeaks and I try to regain my breath, jumping as something warm runs down my face. It’s just sweat. I wander to the window, the gentle breeze carrying the fresh smell of the cut grass into my sauna of a room before flopping onto the bed again. I peel off the coat, tracing the patch of missing fur on the back. Instantly, I snatch my hand away from the cold fabric, gagging. My hand _stinks._ The coat stinks. Horseshit. 

I freeze and let the coat drop to the floor with a thud. 

‘This isn’t funny.’ I look over my shoulder, hoping to see Paul giggling at me. He isn’t. There’s no one.

Like there was no one downstairs.  
No, it can’t have followed me - not all the way out here.  
Ghosts haunt houses not people. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This look riddled with clichés at first but – keep an open mind.


	4. Breakfast.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sagging middle. And a soggy coat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Vomit, threat to safety of guitars.

It’s probably going to take an entire bottle of Fairy Liquid to get the smell out my coat. It’s awful – probably how a constipated, decaying horse smells. Drizzling the last of the soap onto the fur, I turn the freezing water on again, scrubbing hard. The early morning sun sits directly in the window above the sink and that, added to the lack of breeze, results in the ceiling fan just wafting warm air at me. It’s annoyingly squeaky too.

  
Switching the tap off, I raise the coat to my face - the stench of horseshit’s still there. 

I dump it back in the sink, giving in and scrape back a chair. I thought this was my best option – getting up before everyone else so I could clean my coat without question – but really, half six is a stupid time. It’s too early. Quite unsettling too as every noise is amplified by the emptiness, every squeak from the ceiling fan getting louder as it joins the echoes in the room. 

I rest my head on the table, crossing my hands over my neck as if that’ll drown out the squeaks and dull knocking coming from all around. The warm air wraps around me, every noise morphing into one roaring hum, each breath becoming more laboured. It’s too early. It’s too warm – the drops of cold-water landing on my back my only relief from the heat. 

Then I realise my coat’s probably blocking the drain. Gripping the table, I stand and turn to the taps, suddenly awake when I see how high the water is. I reach over, smacking them off and sit back down, as cold wet hands land on my shoulders. I bite back a scream. 

‘So, it was you that used all the hot water?’ 

I sigh at the distinctive voice. 

‘Morning Freddie.’ He flops down on the chair next to me. 

‘Why isn’t Deacy up? He’s usually awake for hours before you drag yourself down.’

‘You’re up early too.’ I glance at the clock, double taking. Since when was it quarter to nine? ‘Uh... I was thinking of making him breakfast.’ I try to smile. ‘You know I said I wanted to reconnect...’

‘Roger dear, you do not know how to use kitchenware.’

‘I can learn.’ I shrug, my friend smirking. ‘Alright you make coffee!’ He says nothing. ‘You don’t know how to use it either, do you?’

‘No.’ Freddie eyes the oven across from us. ‘Guess we’ll have to wait for Deacy. Speaking of which, how is he?’

I hesitate, shivering at what my partner said last night.

‘Don’t know, haven’t seen him since he went to the basement.’ I look away from the singer. ‘Why?’

‘He may be your man but he’s _my_ Deacy. You _know_ I worry about him.’

  
‘No I don’t, you’ve _never_ made it clear.’ I quip, Freddie frowning. ‘Sorry. Listen, I’m sure whatever it is isn’t to do with you.’

‘Thought I heard him crying last night.’ Freddie muses, my attention snapping back to him. ‘Hey, relax. _Thought_ I heard him. Actually, I thought it was a ghost at first, no idea he was down there.’

  
‘What happened?’ I try to ignore the word ‘ghost,’ wanting to keep to last shred of respect Freddie has for me.

  
‘Woke Paul, he said Deacy was down there, so went to see him and when I got to the door the crying had stopped.’ I run my hand through my hair, letting out a long breath. ‘Knocked a few times, heard footsteps then something was flung at the doors, followed by the words ‘leave me alone.’’

  
‘Shouted?’

‘No, it was more of a mumble-stroke-whine. Why? Do you think he _was_ crying.’ I nod, my friend sighing. ‘Why didn’t you let him share with you?’

  
‘I would’ve but the _arsehole_ you’re sharing with wouldn’t let us!’ I growl.

‘Oh, did he?’ Freddie shakes his head slowly.

‘Yes! John... didn’t want to share with me.’

‘Well, that’s not like him!’ Freddie grins at Brian as he joins us, the guitarist responding only with a grunt. ‘And Paul wouldn’t have meant you couldn’t. Maybe Deacy already asked.’

‘Are you to still going on about him?’ Brian yawns, glancing down at my sodden coat in confusion.

‘I’m worried about him.’ I retort. ‘And according to him, I’m not leaving him alone-’

‘Well, you’re not.’

‘But he likes being with me, Bri! I like being around him. Makes me feel safe at home... I really need him right now.’

‘Deacy makes you feel safe? The same Deacy that can kill with one look?’ Brian rests his head on his palm, another blink away from falling asleep. ‘Isn’t he up by now with-’

‘Breakfast made, yeah, he’s not up.’ Freddie butts in. ‘And if you need him so much, darling, you should’ve shared. _I_ would’ve let him share with me!’

  
‘IT WAS PAUL!’

  
‘What was me?’

'Oh speak of the devil,' _never has that saying been more apt,_ ‘nothing, darling. Mind making coffee?'

  
‘Of course.’ He smiles at me as I glower. ‘Roger, how do you have coff-’

Paul trails off as footsteps come pounding towards the room, John darting around the door. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees us.

‘Um... what time’s it?’ He quivers. Instantly, I rush over – twigging what’s wrong. 

‘Nearly nine, but it’s ok-’

‘But I never do this – why did I do this?’

‘Do what?’ I turn him to face me, bloodshot eyes refusing to meet mine. ‘There’s no set time.’

  
‘I know but, what about food and coffee and waking that.’ He gestures at Brian, just as Freddie kicks the guitarist awake.

‘I’m doing coffee.’ Paul sets a mug down in front of Brian, John immediately running to the counter. ‘Okay, guess you are now.’

‘Have you done mine yet?’ I ask, Paul shaking his head, gurning at me. ‘Good, mine needs to be done with _spectacular_ precision.’ 

For a moment, a smile tugs at John’s lips, a glint in his eyes for the first time in ages. Then he shudders, almost dropping the sugar jar, as if to shake off the happiness. 

‘I thought the sugar thing is a joke?’ Paul mocks, looking down at John who’s studying the amount of sugar on the spoon, tutting when ‘too much’ falls off. ‘Glad I wasn’t the only one who fell for it.’

‘Yeah, Deacy dear, why do you still do it?’ Freddie doesn’t get an answer. ‘Oh yes, Roger said it’s _the best coffee he’s ever tasted. Ooo, John you’re so-’_ My friend makes kissy noises, sniggering as John continues to ignore him. 

  
‘Right, can we just have breakfast and get to work?’ I interrupt Freddie’s teasing and sit opposite him - seeing as Paul’s nabbed my seat.

  
‘Of course, hot or cold?’ John holds a coffee out for me, pulling his sleeve down his arm. 

‘Hot, speaking of cold is there any heaters?’ I nearly spit out the coffee at Freddie’s words, suddenly seeing his point. It has got cold, very quickly. ‘Think it’s breezy today, make it a small breakfast so we can get started soon.’

‘It’ll have to be.’ I glare at Paul. ‘We left _him_ in charge of food.’ 

‘He can get more later.’ Freddie sends me a warning look.

  
That’s the only way we communicate for the next half an hour – glaring. All of us except John, who just stares into space, having not made himself anything. He used to do that at the flat, in the early days – serve the rest of us and he’d go without - and back then we weren’t in the middle of nowhere having just had two years’ worth of hard-earned money eaten by Trident.

So not only have I got to get back on track with a moody and distant John, but a tired and starving one too. Fuck, and we’re meant to ‘go into the studio and make the best record possible.’ 

I doubt any recording will get done today, not now Brian’s decided to start an argument the second we step into the studio.

‘Roger, I _know_ you moved it.’ He’s already yelling, standing over me. ‘What have you done with it?’

‘Uh, Bri, you know damn well I’d never touch it, let alone hide it!’ I scream, backing away.

  
‘Oh come on, who else? You bloody saw where I put it, and you’re the only-’

  
‘I’d feel less guilty murdering Chrissie than I would if that guitar got damaged.’ I ignore Freddie’s snort at my comment. Brian stands closer.

  
‘Where is it?'

  
‘I. Don’t. Know!’ 

  
‘Right, then let’s stop screaming and find the bloody thing.’ Freddie runs over, standing between Brian and I. ‘We need to be hollering with a guitar, not without, whilst a dead drummer rots in the corner.’

Behind us, there’s a retch followed by John bolting out the studio. I rush after him, finding him with his hands against the wall, vomit splattering onto the stone floor. As I hold his hair out his face, he flinches. 

‘It’s just me, it’s okay.’ I whisper. ‘You been feeling bad all day?’ He nods, shivering. ‘Bri and I arguing couldn’t have helped.’

‘No, it wasn’t you two... anyway the Red is in the corner. Clearly.’ John murmurs, stepping away from his sick. ‘I’ll sort that.’

‘No get Paul to.’ He staggers a little, and I take his arms, my partner backing away. ‘Right I’m going to tell those two to get started alone, you need a day off.’

‘No, Roger-’

‘John, you’re going to my bed and not getting out until you’re better.’ I demand, somehow managing to get him to agree. Quickly kissing his forehead, I run back to the studio, where Freddie and Brian are still squabbling. In the corner, I notice Bri’s Red Special next to a small stack of amps. 

Just as I’m about to head over, the top amp drops to the floor. It misses the Red by an inch, a loud clatter ringing out. Brian screams and dashes to his Old Lady.

‘You cock.’

‘ _I_ _didn’t-’_ I take a breath. ‘You know what, you two, do this alone! I’m clearly just the idiot to fucking pin the blame on.’

‘Roger!’

I storm out, calming myself as I approach John and wrap my arm around his shoulders. We head back to the main house, then upstairs, John glancing back to the basement door.

  
‘If you want me to leave you alone, you’ll have to kill me.’ He flinches again, staring at me in terror. ‘Hey, hey! John?’

  
‘Sorry.’ He sobs, hugging his waist. ‘I... I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’

  
‘Just, get comfy in there, ignore the smell and I’ll be up with...’ I smile at him. ‘An _attempt_ at tea.’

  
Running back downstairs, I stand in front of the oven- hob- stove? Do I need a match for this?

  
‘Roger, do that shit again and I will cut your testes off.’ Brian pushes my shoulder, forcing me to look at him. 

  
‘It wasn’t me!’ Well done Roger.

‘Who else was it?’ He folds his arms, staring down at me, still furious. I’m halfway to telling him... might as well.

‘I... some stuff has been happening.’ I begin, my friend relaxing a little. ‘Like, there’s this awful smell following me, things pushing me, it’s really cold sometimes.’

‘What are you saying Rog?’ 

‘I think I’m being haunted.’ I confess, a hand smacking against my cheek.

As I rub my stinging cheek, surprised at how hard he can hit, Brian slams the door behind him, the ceiling fan whirring above me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh... well that was that.


	5. Shower.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully the pace will pick up after this chapter.

Brian must’ve said something to Freddie the other day, seeing as the singer won’t stop snickering at me. It’s good John doesn’t talk to him anymore, much – that would certainly make our rusting hatchback of a relationship crash and burn if finds out about the ghost.  
I wish it would fuck off. The knocking noises in the walls are becoming unbearable, the smell’s getting worse and the chill in the studio means that nothing is getting done. It’s got that bad I’m hardly sleeping, the early morning hours spent working out how to sort these two things – and my relationship with John - out and which one to sort first. 

  
Knocking comes from the walls, again. Seizing my chance, I head to Brian’s to make my point. Just as I grab the door handle, I hear something else. 

Water. Smattering somewhere as the shitty stench of gone off bacon floats out the bathroom. Over the top of the pungent smell is an alarmingly sweet tone, like cheap perfume. Getting closer, I notice sharp, quick breaths behind the noise of the shower as steam runs through the crack in the door.  
Standing at an arm’s length from the doorway, I shove the door open, revealing the steamy room and a shadow in the shower. The light isn’t on in here, the steam thick and warm, the shadow blurred by the foggy glass panels. It’s facing away from me and if it wasn’t for how skinny and jittery the shadow is, I wouldn’t be stepping closer. 

Then I remember the burning room, the smoke and heat not too dissimilar to the bathroom now. _Come on Roger that was ages ago_. I’m past that, and currently inches from the thing that pushed me.

I reach for the shower door, the rubber seal squeaking.

  
Large hands grapple with the temperature handle as he whispers desperate pleads. Burning water hammers against his bare, reddened skin, chestnut hair flattened against his face and shoulders. As pained gasps escape him, still fighting with the shower controls, I lunge for the handle. John skitters back, almost crashing into the glass as I grab the metal handle. The shower stops, room turning stone cold and filling with the horseshit stench as the pipes gurgle.

‘What’s happening?’ I murmur, reaching out for John’s hand. ‘You hurt?’

‘No... Freddie left it the temperature full blast.’ He doesn’t take my hand, just shivers against the glass. ‘Why are you here?’

‘No just, it’s not even seven.’ _How the hell did I not hear him come up?_ ‘Right, let’s get out here.’ 

  
‘I – the door wouldn’t open.’ John steps out the shower, keeping his eyes locked to the ground. 

‘You still look ill from the other day.’ I comment, removing a cold towel robe from the rack, grabbing another for myself. ‘Why didn’t you scream?’

‘I don’t scream. I’m not you.’ He takes the towel, glaring at the shower before gagging. I almost retch too. ‘You smell that?’ 

‘Yeah, is that what’s making you feel ill?’ I ask, ushering him out the room. ‘Maybe a... chicken got stuck in the pipes?’

  
He sends me a blank look. Pretending I never said anything, I fling my bedroom door open, my partner dragging me in and slamming the door shut in one swift motion. He backs away from it, one hand on my arm. 

  
‘Sorry, that smell makes me ill. Smells like, a dead thing and...’ Knocking fills the room again, John shuffling closer to me. I wrap an arm around his shoulder.

‘It’s just pipes.’ That came out more confident than I thought it would. ‘How long have you been up?’ 

‘Don’t know. Didn’t seem like long.’ John lays back, not caring about his hair soaking the duvet. ‘Woken by the smell, got convinced whatever it is was on me and went to shower, burning hot and I couldn’t switch it off again. Or open the door.’

I clench my jaw, breathing out heavily. That ghost can fuck with me all it likes, but not John. 

‘What like, something was stopping you from getting out?’ I ask, my partner nodding. I want to ask what exactly, the word ‘ghost’ desperate to come out. Not now though – he needs to know I take him seriously. Not many people outside Queen do take John seriously.

‘Are you still tired?’ He asks, staring up at me as I yawn, a little glint in his eyes as if laughing at the timing. Wish he’d laugh again – even if it’s at something stupid.

‘Yeah but, nothing a _perfectly_ sweet coffee can’t fix.’ I wait for a beat, hoping for the corner of his eyes to crinkle, one hand resting on his jawline, and for that uncontrollable giggle to fill the air. It hurts a bit when he doesn’t. ‘Can go down after your hair’s dried. Not that anything will get done today.’

  
‘Have you got anything yet, y’know, song wise... I haven’t – well nothing good... y’know, nothing you’ll like.’ 

‘I promise I won’t.’ I smile.

‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep.’

He goes back to not speaking to any of us the second we head down, an hour or so later. I guess Brian and Freddie will also refrain from talking to me so spending five hours in a small and stinky room sounds _delightful!_

Still, Freddie’s level of focus is admirable, I confess, and the little smiles whenever he adds something new are a privilege to witness. He pauses, hands hovering over the left side of the piano, and glances over his shoulder. Then his face falls, as if in realisation. Clearing his throat, he turns back to the piano and starts again from the top, hammering the keys harder and leaning into it, with steely eyes. My ghost problems have put a smirk on Freddie’s face all morning, but that novelty’s clearly worn off. 

He stops again, looking over to the door.  
‘It’s beautiful.’ Paul breathes, gazing down at Freddie as the singer scribbles on a scrap of paper, smiling. 

‘I know it is – and I can _hear_ what I want John to do and I’m worried I’ll forget it.’ 

  
‘Freddie, I’m not getting anywhere with mine so I’m all yours-’

‘No, Brian, I want Deacy first – I can’t explain it it’s just, _there_ and I need it doing.’ Brian rolls his eyes at the singer. ‘For you though, how easy is it to get a harp? Anyway, Bri, surely you understand the – I can _hear_ it!’

  
‘Freddie, it’s beautiful.’ Paul repeats, patting the slightly over-excited man on the shoulder.

 _‘It’s beautiful!’_ I mock, picking at the corner of the amp I’m sat on, focused on the two men on the opposite side of the room. 

  
‘Well at least Prenter being useful.’ Brian quips, wiping the sweat of his forehead with his wrist. ‘Listen, you need to get off your arse and do something. We’re getting nowhere at this rate.’

‘I’ve tried to tell you why!’ As soon as I start speaking, he walks away. I don’t see how I _can_ do anything, really. Not as if Brian and Freddie will ever take me seriously again. Suppose I could try and do something... or just keep biting my thumbnail. Going to turn my thumb into a fleshy string cheese at this rate.

  
‘Oh, took your time, darling.’ I look up at Freddie’s voice. ‘Deacy, listen to this – I can already hear you on this.’

There’s a speaker in the way of where Freddie’s looking, so I lean back on the amp, smiling at who I see. John stands in the doorway of the studio, leant against the door, staring into the corner. My smile fades when I realise how red and puffy his eyes are, and how much he’s shivering.

  
‘Dear, are you still ignoring me?’

‘Deacy can you sort this amp out. It’s not working.’ Brian calls. ‘Deacy?’ The guitarist cautiously approaches him, setting the Red down, sending me a warning look. ‘Earth to John!’

Suddenly, Paul bolts over to Brian. He pushes my friend to the ground, just as the speaker comes crashing down, right where Brian had just been standing. Freddie spins around on his stool, rushing over to help Paul and Brian to their feet. Slowly, the four of us turn to the doorway. John steps back, glancing between Brian, the corner, me and the speaker, his hands held out in front of him.

  
‘John?’ Freddie steps over to the brunette, glaring at me. ‘Did you put him up to this?’

‘No!’ John doesn’t look at the singer. ‘No, it wasn’t Roger. _None of it_.’

‘Are you in on it too?’ Brian asks, clenching his fists, shuddering. _Fuck it’s gone cold._

  
‘In on what?’ John stares at me in confusion. ‘None of this is Roger. Why do you think it is?’

‘He keeps making up stupid things to get out of work.’ Brian sighs. I stand, knocking the amp down and storm over.

  
‘ _No, I don’t_!’ As I reach the middle of the room, something hits me. ‘Don’t you smell that?’

‘Don’t change the subject.’ Freddie snaps. ‘Roger-’

‘Please, leave him out of it!’ John begs. 

‘Roger only tried to ruin a guitar, the other day.’ Paul butts in. ‘Not kill-’

‘No one asked you Prenter!’ Brian growls, looking back to John. ‘But he’s right. _And_ you pushed Rog into the fire.’

‘Just stop.’

  
‘No, John! Tell us, what the fuck is wrong with you?’ 

Then there’s a bang behind us. I turn around, panicking, expecting rising flames like before, but no. Smoke billows the amp I’d knocked over, but thankfully without fire. 

‘Oh, don’t be a coward.’ I spin on my heels and glare at Paul. ‘Not you, him.’  
He points to the doorway. John’s no longer there.

  
‘Don’t go after him, Rog.’ Freddie sighs, sitting again. ‘I don’t think I can take any more of this. Of him.’

Refusing to give up like Freddie, I chase after John back to the main house. He’s quicker than me, even in those fucking platforms. He stops at the front door, realising its locked. I hold out the keys, after catching up, my partner nearly jumping out his skin.

‘Didn’t you realise I was chasing you?’ I ask, letting us both in. I keep one hand on his wrist and lead him to the kitchen. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I told you - _I’m_ the issue.’ John pulls his hand away from mine, pulling the sleeves on his – my – sweater over his hands. It’s still cold. 

  
‘John, I know it couldn’t have been you.’ 

‘Who else is there?’ He folds his arms. ‘There isn’t anyone else. I’m the problem.’

‘In what? The speaker falling over or everything else that you’re not even present for!’ I scream, regretting it. _I need to tell him now, don’t I?_

‘What else has happened?’ Shrugging, he perches on the table. Shrugging _something_ off. 

‘It’s summer. Why is it minus forty in here? That smell is not horseshit – it’s human shit and something rotting.’ It still smells. ‘And the knocking... something pulling me and pushing me around. Setting my side of the bed on fire.’

  
‘But-’

‘John, I’m being haunted. Not the farm, not our house, which is what I thought. _Me!_ You’re not the issue, I AM. Sorry it’s got this far.’

He says nothing. Keeps staring to the ground, resting his head in one hand. All I can do is wait; wait for him to fling the discarded spoon at me and walk out. He doesn’t. Slowly, he turns to me, his hand coming away from his face.

  
‘Roger,’ he pauses, ‘do you mean a ghost?’ 

  
‘Yes, happy now?’ I growl, John not looking away from me. He goes to say something, but puts his hand over his mouth. Huffing, I stomp over and pull his hand away. ‘Go on – say it!’

I shouldn’t have said that. His eyes meet mine, as he grips my hand, words barley a whisper.

‘She said I’m the only one who can see her.’


	6. Ghost.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is dialogue heavy but I don’t see how it could be anything else. Again – I don’t believe anyone mentioned has these opinions or would commit any of these actions. I also don’t believe in ghosts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: fairly graphic descriptions of human decomposition, arguments and death.  
> And I named the ghost after the first car I found on Wikipedia and has no relation to anyone with that name.

We stare at each other in silence for what feels like an eternity. He’s not joking. I’d know if he was joking. Same as I’d know if he was having the same problem as me. Wait - _see her._ That’s new. 

  
‘I had to say something.’ He sniffs. ‘I’m not making fun of you I-’

  
‘Hey, I know.’ I sit next to him, hugging him close. He buries his face in my neck, sniffling. ‘It’s alright.’

‘It’s not alright – _look at her.’_ John grips my shoulders, quivering. ‘Look at her.’

  
‘I... I only hear it, I don’t see it.’ I stroke his hair, John slowly looking up at me. ‘What does it look like?’ His eyes widen as he’s nearly sick again. ‘Okay, don’t answer!’

‘No... should have known you can’t see her. You’re too happy.’ He glances at the corner again. ‘Can you smell her?’

‘Shit and rotting bacon?’ John flinches at my description. ‘Sorry, and by the way I’m not happy.’

‘Exactly.’ He hiccups. ‘You can’t look at her. What’s happened to her. Poor girl.’

 _‘Little_ girl?’

‘No, she said she’s twenty-eight... so much ahead of her.’ John drops his gaze to the floor. I cup his cheek, making him face me.

‘It shoved me in a fire and tried to kill Brian. Don’t feel sorry for it!’

 _‘Her.’_ John snaps. ‘She looks so bad... and you’ve heard her? She’s always upset, crying and shouting.’

‘I hear it – her, knocking not speak-’

‘Just smell and knocking then?’ He asks. ‘What about the cold?’ 

‘Typical ghost things.’ I nod, holding back a laugh. John shuffles closer to me, taking a deep breath. Rubbing his knee, I lean forward – _tell me._

  
‘I call her Laurel... as in Nissan Laurel.’ Tilting my head, I stare at him. The Nissan Laurel’s a crummy Datsun hatchback if I’m right ‘She died in a car crash, in that car.’ John sighs. ‘I know, insensitive, but she won’t tell me her name. She was alive and well until three weeks and one day ago.’ He pauses. ‘When I started ignoring you... I _said_ I was the issue.’

  
‘Surely she’s the issue?’ He glares at me. Is he expecting me to be nice about _Laurel?_ From the way he’s looking there every two seconds, I think she’s in the corner, grinning and ugly as she takes a little bit of John away each day. John’s not hers – if he’s anyone’s he’s Freddie's Deacy. _Freddie._ After I’ve got all I can out of John, I’ll need to tell him. Unless... ‘Told anyone else?’

  
‘No, she won’t let me.’ He looks to the corner again ‘And she wants me to shut up now.’

‘Don’t listen to her... keep talking to me.’ I take his hands, fully aware of how desperate I must sound. ‘John, how did she die? Why does she like you so much?’

‘She doesn’t like me. Who likes me?’ John hesitates, his latter statement making me wince. ‘She hates me. I watched her die. Just stood there on the pavement... now I just try not to watch her rot.’  
I forgot how blunt he is - not spoken to him in that long. _Watch her ro_ t. He can’t mean that literally. 

  
‘Do you see her... decomposing? How a corpse would?’ John nods, taking another glance at the corner. ‘ _Don’t look at he_ r.’

Then smell wafts over to us, the rotting meat. Shit, it’s human meat rotting. A friend, from my medical college days, told me what happens when someone dies. They smell like that with a strange sweet tone, and the bowels empty a week or something after, then get covered in blisters.   
No wonder John’s changed.

  
‘She died three weeks and one day ago... I see her as she is in the ground, she was buried few days or so after she died, in Paddington.’ He flinches again, letting out a small sob. ‘Her skin’s so dry... _cold._ She’s so _cold.’_ He’s staring at his arms, as a chill runs up them. ‘Laurel, _no!’_

  
There are hands running up my arms – small and slender. The hands that pushed me into the fire. Laurel’s hands. A dead woman’s hands on my shoulders. The dead woman terrorising my partner.

‘Laurel get off him, please.’ John nearly screams as nails scrape across my neck, moist fingertips tickling my throat. ‘Laurel _he’s_ not yours _I_ am!’

  
Is that what _Laurel_ thinks? Is it? 

  
‘No, you bitch – he’s mine!’ I grab at the hands, finding her skinny wrists. Ripping her off my neck, I kick out to my left, my Converse landing on something soft. The smell gets stronger.

 _‘Roger_ – STOP YOU’RE HURTING HER.’

For I moment I think it’s the ghost screaming at me. Then John grasps my shirt, slamming me down on the table, fist raised and eye’s glazed over. He shivers, gaze locked on my face as his hand hovers above me. 

‘Okay, I’m leaving her, _I’m leaving her_!’ My screech gets through to him, and he freezes. His mouth drops open in horror as he unclenches his fist, slowly leaning away from me again. As he lets go of my shirt, I sit up, reaching for his hand. ‘I’m not going to touch her again.’

  
‘I nearly hit you.’ John scoots back, staring past me. ‘Were you really hurt?’

‘No, I-’ He shushes me. Oh, it’s Laurel he’s talking too. Whilst he’s distracted, I take his hand, squeezing it gently as stricken eyes remain fixed on something. Someone. Laurel. I take him finally making eye contact with me as a sign she’s stopped talking. ‘Do you _want_ to protect her?’

‘I didn’t protect her then.’ John shakes his head, violently. ‘Why the hell are you still here? I was going to hit you!’

  
‘Did she tell you to?’

‘That’s not an excuse for hurt-’

‘So, she did?’ _That was pushy, Roger_. ‘Sorry, did she tell you to?’

‘She- you were hurting her.’ He looks away from me. ‘You did... but that doesn’t excuse-’

‘But she’s not alive, I can’t hurt her. She’s hurting you. What else has she said?’

‘That I let her die.’ John states, flatly. Tell me. ‘I could’ve helped her. Could’ve run and stood infront of the car. She’d have braked quicker, not hit the lamppost and I’d be the dead one. _I’d_ be the one in her situation and not a heartless man who lets women die in front of him and values his own life over hers. _I’d_ be dead, and I’d leave no one but... then I told her I’d leave you. And Brian... and _Freddie.’_

‘You would.’ I hiccup, wrapping my arm around his waist. ‘Sorry, keep talking, honey.’

  
‘She said three people aren’t a lot and it’s easy to lose three people. If I’m capable of letting a woman die, I’m heartless enough to hurt you three. Don’t need to do much more to get you to not want me.’

‘The bit-’ Be nice about her. ‘She said all that? Or have _we_ made you feel like that?’

  
‘It was her. She does things, she’s smart.’ He sniffles, nearly setting me off. ‘She notices things and knows how to... y’know.’

‘Knows how to manipulate.’ I sigh. _‘She_ pushed me, knocked the speaker over – did she move the Red? Made out it-’ John looks over to the corner again. ‘Do not look at her!’

  
‘She isn’t manipulative. She’s hurt – I hurt her.’ He hesitates. ‘Now I’m hurting Freddie. I’m hurting my best friend. She’s right. I’m heartless.’

‘ _Listen to yourself_!’ I grab his shoulders. ‘You’re not _you_ anymore. Not joking anymore, not letting Freddie force you into being a cuddle monster. Not being... she’s taken you, John, and I can see that. You wouldn’t just let Brian blame me for shit or not share a room with me or...’

  
Suddenly, the door swings open. _Laurel does not scare me_. I hug John and pull him into my chest, glaring at the door where Freddie stands. Arms folded. Eyebrows furrowed. Then his eyes drop from me to the boy in my arms, the singer’s face falling. He rushes over and, much to my relief, descends into Deacy Protection Mode. Laurel scares me but she won’t scare Freddie. Freddie will hate her more than I do.

  
_Wait._ Freddie doesn’t know about Laurel. All he’s seen today is John supposedly throw a speaker at Brian and run off.Freddie stops, folding his arms again and steps back from John and I.

  
‘Look at me John.’ He snaps, John not moving. _‘Deacy.’_

‘Careful Fred.’ I growl. ‘He’s been through enough.’

  
‘Been through _what,_ dear?’ Freddie scoffs. ‘Yeah, trying to murder your bandmate must have been so _difficult!_ What, are you crying because you didn’t hurt him? Oh, and of course you’d take his side, Roger.’

  
‘Fred, I am not taking sides! Just listen to him.’ I beg, as the singer rolls his eyes.

‘What is he haunted by the ghost too?’ 

John squeals, gripping onto my wet shirt. He’s close to hysterical.

‘Freddie shut up!’

 _‘No!’_ Freddie balls his fists, taking a breath. ‘John, four years I’ve been here for you. Listened, comforted, fucking set you up with Roger, pushed you to talk and sorted you out and did all I could and you turn around and _fucking ignore me_? We were so close! Deacy, what went wrong? What did I do?’

  
‘Fucks sake Freddie, not everything is about you!’ 

‘And can you _shut the fuck up Roger_!’ Freddie yells, John freezing in my arms. ‘Deacy, we were like brothers. You’re my little brother and I’ve never wanted you to get hurt. _Never._ So, when I saw you were the other week, I wanted to help. Like I always promised I would – I _told_ you not long after you joined that you can talk to me.’

  
Brothers. Freddie, Brian and I are like brothers. Wouldn’t say Freddie and John are. Honestly, the entire reason it took me a year to talk about my feelings for John was because I thought him and Freddie were secretly a couple. I envy their connection.

  
Now I’m watching it fall apart.

‘But you haven’t. You’ve ignored _every_ word I say and gone running to Roger crying as if you’re the one that’s getting hurt. I know you are hurt, but you are doing it yourself now! You’re hurting us all! You... you’ve ignored me, not gone near me, acted like I don’t exist and it has killed me. All that time I’ve tried to get you to talk because you being silent hurts.’

  
_‘Freddie.’_

‘John... ignoring me – hurting me and knowing _damn w_ ell – is one thing, but the stunt with Bri earlier. And you keep looking at him like he’s evil or something, like he’s-’

  
‘Like _I’m_ the danger in this house.’ John leaps off the table and skitters to the corner of the room at Brian’s voice. ‘Rog, have you got anything out of him – don’t say ‘ghost.’’

  
John squeals again as I notice how warm it is. _Don’t say ghost._

‘Deacy, you’re pushing us all away.’

  
‘He’s not pushing any of us away!’ I scream, as Paul pokes his head around the door. 

‘What is it?’ He chuckles, a smirk creeping onto his face. ‘What’s wrong _Deacy.’_

  
‘A woman died in a car accident.’ I begin, the room going silent. Brian and Freddie’s expressions soften, finally showing John concern not plain anger. ‘John saw it and now...’ I glance at John, my partner slowly shaking his head. ‘The... he sees her. She follows him and she’s controlling him. She’s the ghost I was telling you about!’

‘Just as- no.’ Brian storms out the room. ‘You two were _just mad_ e for each other.’

‘Sick thing to joke about.’ Paul muses as Freddie stares at John in horror.

  
‘Deacy.’ A tear runs down his cheek. ‘I’m sorry, but...’

_Don’t. Please Freddie, he needs you. I need you._

‘You’re dead to me.’

Before I can punch the singer, he walks away, Paul pulling him into a hug as the door slams. I stare at the door as the room turns cold, frozen to the spot. Then there’s a wail.

The sound of Laurel stabbing John where it hurts most. 

Freddie. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this wasn’t too reveal-all. Anyway, thank you for reading this. I have nothing against people called Laurel by the way, and the Nissan Laurel might be a good car for all I know.


	7. Cupboard.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re at Ridge/Rockfield Farm, there’s going to be The Cupboard Scene.  
> Just, not the one people like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Unknown form of attack and shoehorned Dealor.

John had cried until he passed out. I wasn’t going leave him in the basement to wake up cold and alone with _her_ so I took him up to my room. Not long after, I’d fallen asleep too, letting John have the duvet. The only problem was, Laurel followed us.

  
I tuck my sleeping partner’s head into my chest, cradling him. Hopefully I’ll block out her smell, protect him from her chill.

  
‘She can’t get you.’ I trace my fingers through his hair. ‘I won’t let her. I know you don’t like me saying it but....’ My voice turns to a growl as I look over to the corner, ‘that bitch will regret ever coming near you.’

The duvet flickers, John booting them off him. No, _he_ didn’t boot them off. 

‘Oh no, you bitch.’ Without thinking, I swing my leg over John, laying on top of him and cover us with the duvet. I pin the cover under my arms, the sheet being tugged and scratched. ‘Get fucked!’

  
She stops scratching. The duvet stops moving. Then I realise – John’s being dragged from under me. Squealing, I try to kick at her, clinging onto John. His eyes flicker open and he wraps his arms around my waist, kicking and thrashing. My foot hits something and I grab the brunette, just as the duvet slides off the bed. 

‘Laurel, leave him!’ John whimpers, staring past me. ‘No! Don’t kill him – please!’

‘What?’ I scream, as a damp, cold hand hits my cheek, bony fingers twisting in my hair. Screeching, I hold John closer, as he wriggles out from under me, lunging at what’s behind us. 

The rough hands disappear from my hair and John shoves me off the bed. I scramble up to the wall, bringing my knees to my chest and shut my eyes.

_She’s going to kill him. She going to kill him. She was going to kill me._

I’m snapped out of my thoughts by the door slamming. John backs away from it slowly, before running over to me.

  
‘Move the bed to the door.’ He hisses, clambering over to the other side. ‘No, she can’t walk through doors.’

We drag the bed to the door, the handle shaking and rattling. Both of us sit frozen on the bed, silent and gripping one another’s hand. After a few moments, the chill in the room fades and John slumps against me.

‘She’s gone to the basement.’ He murmurs, reaching for my ankle. ‘You... you’ve got her on you. She’s on the duvet too.’

  
‘What do you mean?’ I stroke his hair again, my partner jumping. ‘Just me.’

‘The duvet and the sheets need washing – can’t you...’ He gags. ‘You need to shower.’

‘What if we wake Fred-’ His eyes brim with tears at the singer’s name, ‘or Paul? What time’s it.’

‘Half six.’ John gets off the bed again, glancing down at himself. ‘Roger, where are my jeans?’

‘It’s not nice sleeping in denim. Don’t worry I left your pants on.’ I smile, then remember something. ‘Will she follow me into the shower?’

‘She went to the basement to sleep.’ John shrugs, helping me move the bed. He talks about Laurel like she’s a mate – casual and calm. Mostly calm. _Too c_ alm. ‘She didn’t sleep well on the floor.’

‘Ghosts sleep?’ I exclaim, fairly sure Paul’s laughing next door.

‘Yeah. Why she doesn’t taunt at night, if you’ve noticed.’ John stares at the bed. ‘Why I don’t share with you. She doesn’t like being alone at night. She takes the bed and I sleep on the floor.’ I wander over, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  
‘She’s really...’ I want to say ‘poisoned’ but, he wants me to be nice. Why? She isn’t nice! ‘She’s really got her claws into you.’

  
‘You need to shower.’ He turns from me and opens the door. ‘You shower, I’ll sort everything in here then-’

‘I’m _not_ leaving you alone with _her.’_ I grab his wrist, spinning him to face me. _‘Never_ again.’

‘She doesn’t want you near me, though.’

  
‘You’re better than her!’

‘Don’t say that!’ He hisses. ‘Be nice about her, please. If you’re not nice to her she gets... angry.’

‘She’ll have me to get through first!’

‘Trust me, Roger. You don’t want that – _I_ don’t want that.’

I decide not to continue that conversation in the shower and that it would be wise to not talk about Laurel too much. Maybe ignoring her is what we need to do?Guess if she can’t walk through walls and needs to sleep, she’s basically still human – she’ll get bored eventually.

Hopefully. 

Brian and Freddie are still asleep when John and I head downstairs. Think the peril earlier took my mind off how early it is – _too_ early. Thankfully, the second I sit down John starts with the coffee, examining the sugar on the spoon. 

  
‘Why do you still do that?’ I laugh, hoping to get a smile out of him. 

  
‘It’s just... y'know... _stupid._ You said it tastes better.’ He muses. ‘And, y'know you’re a dentist so I listen to you about sugar.’

‘I was never a dentist.’ John places my coffee in front of me.

‘You’re a dentist.’ He says, dryly, a small smirk flashing across his face, a glint in his eyes, crinkling at the corners. 

  
‘There he is again.’ I murmur, smiling, my throat turning dry. I’ve missed that - missed him and his silly antics and humour. 

  
Three weeks and one day is what he said. That’s how long it’s been since we were close, since we’ve talked properly, since we’ve actually acted like we’re together. I want it to be like that again, so bad – is this the start? When was the last time I told him I love him? The last time he said he loves _me?_

  
She doesn’t want us to – Laurel doesn’t want us to love each other. _No..._ she may have got him but she isn't fucking with me.

‘John...’ He looks over, waiting. ‘Is it me or Laurel?’ He tilts his head in confusion. ‘That stopped you from loving me?’

  
‘Neither of you.’ He turns back to the counter as I wander over. ‘Neither of you did anything.’

  
‘Then what did?’ Stroking his shoulder, I coax him closer. ‘Unless you still love me?

He trembles, a clammy palm wrapping around my wrist

‘Laurel doesn’t like you near me.’ 

‘And I don’t like her around you.’ My hand trails up to his cheek, tracing his quivering lips, John not letting go. ‘Going to answer me?’

‘You can’t love me anymore, Roger.’ He chokes, giving off no clues to whether that was a question or not. Or is it what – _no, stop thinking about he_ r.

  
Entangling my fingers in his still damp hair, I lean forward, dry lips pressing to mine. John falters and I slip my free arm around his back, pulling him close as I disconnect our lips. He rests his forehead on my shoulder, wrapping his arms around my waist, sighing when I kiss his hair. 

‘She won’t stop me – ever.’ I whisper, John draws back and gazes up at me from under his eyelashes. 

  
‘I hate her.’ He leans against me again, his words catching me off guard. So much for being _nice._ ‘I hate her, _so much_.’

  
‘So do I.’ I tighten the hug, John nuzzling my neck. We stay like that for I don’t know how long, before I remember something. ‘Right, how does showing me your new song sound?’

  
He recoils, coughing a little with look of sheer terror. Not too dissimilar to what happened when I first caught him playing _Misfire._

‘I’ve only just-’

  
‘Started it?’ I cut him off, John nodding. ‘Well, show me what you’ve got so far.’

‘What I...’ He coughs again. ‘Please Roger, I promise you’ll hate it!’

‘I won’t hate it.' 

I do hate it. Yes, it is the perfect pop song – no one can deny that – but I bloody hate sweet songs. Anything about happiness and domestic lovey-dovey stuff makes me want to smash the record player over my head. Then again, that's the lyrics to... something about best friends and he’s only singing it quietly to me – _is it to me_? – and cringing every time he’s louder than the keyboard. Freddie’s going to go ballistic when John suggests an electric piano. _Freddie._

‘You hate it don’t you?’ John sighs as he gently pushes the keyboard away, plinking the high C. ‘Just came up with it when I was messing around with this thing. I knew you’d hate it.’

  
‘Yeah but the world won’t. Foster said bring back the best and if this is where we’re starting – think we will. Look, we’re weeks in and already have a single.’

  
‘Don’t push it! Us two don’t do singles...’ He plinks the keyboard again, nothing happening. ‘Now this bloody thing has packed up.’ 

  
‘Brian put your tools and things in the cupboard.’ I gesture to the large door to our left, John thanking me briskly and rushing over. ‘It is safe for you to go dismantling this thing? Remember when you tried sorting the TV?’

  
‘It was only a second-degree burn.’ He shrugs, unlocking the cupboard. ‘Anyway, we got ITV ba-’

The cupboard door slams. 

‘John?’

Frantic scratching comes from the inside, then a bang before...

‘Roger? _Laurel!_ Laurel, PLEASE, I’m-’ Another bang interrupts the wails, followed by a screech. 'I didn't mean...'

 _I hate_ her.

_If you’re not nice to her she gets angry. I don’t want that._

I sprint to the cupboard door, just as a click comes from it. She’s locked it. More pained shouts come from the cupboard, every word merging with the other. I don’t know what she’s doing to him – whatever it is hurts. 

  
‘Laurel _I’m sorry_! I didn’t- I I-’ A strangled scream comes out, that loud I’m even sure if it’s John. ‘You’re hurting me, Laurel- YOU’RE HURTING- _LAUREL!’_

  
It is John. 

  
I wrestle with the door handle, jumping at how icy it is, and kick at the door. 

Then the studio door swings open, Brian, Paul and Freddie barrelling through into the... silence.

‘Rog, were there screams?’ Brian asks, just as a small voice comes from the cupboard.

‘What do you mean? _I_ said it, not him.’

  
‘Deacy, darling, why are you-’ I shush Freddie, stepping closer to the door.

  
‘No! _Laurel, no don’t_!’ At John’s wail, Freddie gasps, coming over to the cupboard. ‘Laurel, don’t hurt them! _You said you wouldn’t hurt them_!’

‘Who’s Laurel? Dear, what is-’

‘I can’t do that...’ There’s another bang. ‘Okay... so you won’t hurt them if I...?’ Something scrapes down the door. ‘Okay... I’ll do it. Sorry, Laurel. I’ll do it.’ What’s she going to do to him?? ‘If you don’t-’ John shrieks again. _‘Laurel!’_

  
Brian bolts to the cupboard as the three of us grapple with the handle. Thumps and crashes ring out behind the door as John lets out choked sobs. 

‘LAUREL, I don’t- I don’t- _you said once_!’

  
‘What’s happening to him?’ Freddie yells. ‘Deacy, darling!’

  
‘FREDDIE HELP!’ 

‘What’s happening? What is this Laurel doing?’

‘...Hurting me.’ John whimpers.

‘Hurting you how?’

‘Don’t ask that!’ I whack Freddie on the arm, shaking my head. ‘Is there a crowbar?’

‘In there.’ Brian nods at the cupboard as John screams for Freddie again. And me.

‘Laurel you... you _promised._ Only once! _YOU SAID ONCE_!’

We wrestle with the door again, as I hope three panicking men throwing themselves at a door will cave it in. 

  
Then, it goes quiet behind the door. Very quiet. Nothing but sharp breaths every now and then. Tentative, Freddie knocks on the door.

  
‘Deacy?’ He tries the handle again, a click ringing out. ‘You still there?’

‘Laurel, wait!’ It is a relief to hear his voice – at the same time though, never heard it so small. ‘Freddie is it just you?’

‘Yeah?’ Freddie nods at Brian and I, the two of us stepping out the way of the door. 

  
Freddie slowly opens the door, slamming his hand over his mouth as he stifles a cry. Next to me, Brian coughs as Laurel’s smell comes towards us, the room turning cold. 

‘Deacy, dear?’ Freddie steps into the room, shakily. ‘I’m here. I’m here, sweetheart.’

‘Don’t touch me.’ John whispers. ‘She... you doesn't want you to touch me.’

For the next few minutes, there’s nothing but small whispers and sobs. The chill has gone, along with the smell; Laurel’s left the room. Soon, Freddie comes out the cupboard, grasping John’s hand as he trails behind him. A thin sheen of sweat covers him, eyes puffy and streaming with tears as he steps shakily over to me. I reach for him and pull him into a hug, shuddering at the long shallow scratches down his arms, his wrists covered in purple splotches. He’s cold. Stinks as well. Brian must smell it too, and backs away. 

  
‘Sorry, I said I’d protect you.’ I whisper, my shirt turning wet as a trembling hand twists in my hair. ‘Said I wouldn’t let her hurt you.’

  
‘Roger... you never answered.’ Freddie wraps an arm around John’s shoulder. ‘Who hurt him? Who’s Laurel.’ 

‘Freddie figure it out!’ Brian leans against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. ‘Laurel’s the ghost.’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the Dealor in this came a little out of the blue.  
> I LOVE You’re My Best Friend but there’s evidence to suggest Roger didn’t. This fic... isn't doing well, but I’m sticking with it for the 9 kudo’s I’ve got as I write this note.


	8. She.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Cause this is filleeer FILLER NIGHT  
> And no one's gonna save you from the beast about to strike  
> You know it's filler, filler niiiightttt  
> You're fighting for your life inside a KILLER FILLER TONIGHIIIT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Swearing and a lot of dialogue.  
> 11 chapters makes me uncomfortable. 12 is nicer

Freddie’s been upstairs for a while now. He’d taken John up to his bedroom when we got back to the house, Brian dragging me to the kitchen and interrogating me the moment I sat down. 

  
‘How bad is it?’ He asks for the seventh time. I stare out the window at the sheep wandering in the field. Be nice to be that oblivious right now; have no understanding of anything around you and not have someone damn nearly shouting questions at you whenever you’re too stressed to answer. ‘Roger, what has been happening to him?’

‘Bri, please.’ I rub my temples, screwing my eyes shut as if that’ll stop the burning headache above them. ‘Not now.’

‘Freddie and I have just found Deacy – young, witty, happy Deacy – in a cupboard having god knows what happening to him and you are the _only_ one apart from John who knows what has been happening. And Deacy isn’t exactly speaking to anyone at the moment so you need to.’

  
‘No.’ I don’t look at him, meeting (what I guess will be) his stern glare will piss me off. Make me shout. The exact thing that put us here in the first place. If I hadn’t blown up over Laurel, I wouldn’t be trying to get John’s cries out my head right now. John wouldn’t be in the state he’s in either. ‘I don’t want to talk, Brian.’

‘Please Roger! Deacy is important to me too. I know I don’t show it as much as you and Freddie-’

  
‘Do Freddie and I show it? If we show it so much, why does Laurel think John’s _hers?’_ I let out a groan when I realise what I’ve done. Given Brian all the more reason to question me. More reason to shout at me. More reason to get irritated, which will irritate me too. ‘I don’t know as much as you think I know.’

‘Well you know she wants Deacy.’

  
‘She doesn’t _want_ John, Brian, she already _has_ him if you haven’t _fucking noticed!’_ I tangle my fingers in my hair – don’t get angry. _She gets angry, I don’t want that_. ‘Stop.’

  
‘Rog...’ Brian bats my arm, lightly, his voice quieter than usual. There’s an uncertainty there too, something I’ve never heard from Brian. I turn to face him, sniffling when I notice how pale he’s gone. ‘You can cry in front of me.’

‘I’m not crying.’ I tear my gaze from his con– I look back up. He’s concerned? For me? I can’t tell anymore, everything’s blurry. Cheeks stinging, I bite down on my tongue. _I’m not crying_. Hands rest on my shoulders before Brian wraps his arms around me, pulling me against him. I bury my face into his hair, a searing noise ringing out. 

  
It’s not until the third scream that I realise it’s me. _Screams._

  
‘She’s... she’s taken him.’ I ball my fist and slam it against Bri’s shoulder. ‘She hurt him and I didn’t _fucking help_!’ Brian’s hold on me tightens, his head resting on top of mine. ‘John... we’re nothing anymore. _He’s_ nothing anymore! She’s a manipulative, life-sucking, evil, _ugly, shitty, fucking parasite_ and I was too focused on myself and complaining about her _mildly_ annoying me to realise John – _my bloody partner_ – to realise John was actually _seeing_ this decaying bitch shit her organs out infront of him!’ 

  
There’s a shriek – this time not from me. Brian doesn’t let go as Freddie dashes over, scraping back the chair next to mine.

‘He sees...’ Freddie tugs my arm, and I’m released from Brian’s arms, his curls sticking to my face from the tears. ‘Oh, Roger... darling, did you mean that?’

‘What? That he sees her rotting?’ I snap, glaring at him. He’s been crying. ‘How is he?’

‘Sorted his... injuries and he went for a shower.’ 

  
‘You left him with _her?’_ I kick back my chair and bolt for the door, Freddie grabbing my wrist.

  
‘I know darling.’

‘NO, YOU DON’T!’ I pause, catching my breath as Freddie looks to the floor. ‘You know nothing! None of us know anything!’

‘You know a little bit more than us.’ Brian comments, earning another glare. ‘I know it’s not much, but it’s _something.’_

In fairness, I know a lot more than my two friends. How her hands feel, what she thinks of me, everything she did at home. Sure, at home it was minor things like the smell, cold and knocking noises, joined by broken glass but at the time I thought it was some random ghost – didn’t for one second connect it with John. Suppose I also have a vague idea of how violent she is. 

  
She tried to snap my neck earlier...  
They need to know that bit.

Sitting down again, I run Freddie and Brian through everything John told me yesterday, and this morning’s events. They listen, Freddie twitching every time I say ‘Laurel’ and Brian bringing me back down whenever he senses another rant. 

‘I think everyone else can smell her and... ‘sense’ her, but John interacts with her like he does...’ I damn nearly say how he does with us – no Laurel is not like us. Unless he thinks she is... ‘she’s convinced him she’s good.’

‘Dear, I can assure you he doesn’t think that now.’ Freddie shudders. ‘Not after the cupboard.’

‘She tried to kill me in front of him and he still wants me to be nice about her!’ I wince at how whiny I’ve gone – great, now she’s taking my dignity too. Brian stares at me, stuttering. ‘Sorry.’

‘No, we needed that.’ He sighs. ‘Wait, if she wants him, we’re in the way. He’d leave us and she’s-’

‘Made that happen.’ Freddie finishes, burying his face in his hands. ‘I said he was dead to me.’

‘Freddie, none of this is you – it’s Laurel.’ I wrap my arm around his shoulders. ‘And me.’

‘Rog, did he say why he’s suddenly scared of me?’ Brian asks. ‘Or why he’s avoiding me?’

‘He said Laurel’s smart and knows how to manipulate.’

‘So he knows she’s manipulating him?’ Freddie gasps. ‘That’s a sign!’

‘No, I tried to tell him she was and he insisted she’s... not nice but that I should be nice about her. I don’t know, it’s confusing me.’

‘God, what’s she done with him!’ Freddie yells, balling his fists. ‘What happened before he got in the cupboard – WHAT HAPPENED?’

‘We made her angry.’ My statement is drowned out by Freddie hollering over me. ‘ _I made her angry_!’ That shuts him up and he turns to me. ‘John and I, I got through to him. Nearly made him laugh again, then he said he hates her... in the studio I got him to show me a song then he went to the cupboard to fix the piano...’  
I feel sick at the possibilities, the same sickness I feel when her smell comes back. Is she back?

  
Squealing, I turn to the door, John recoiling back from it. Freddie runs over to the brunette.

‘Sorry, darling. I’m so sorry I was such a prick.’ He envelopes John in a hug, ‘Roger told us what’s been happening. Sorry she’s – this Laurel – done all this.’

John tenses in Freddie’s arms, not returning the hug as the singer continues rabbiting. 

‘Fred, let go of him.’ Brian warns, shuddering and looking over to me. ‘You said she doesn’t like us.’

‘Bri’s right, she’ll hurt you. _Let go of me_.’ John winces at his tone, staring at Freddie, wide eyed. ‘I didn’t- she’s not here right now.’

‘Where is she then?’ I ask, attempting to take his hand. 

  
‘Basement. I... you three carry on with the album, I’ll need to talk to her.’ Freddie squeals at John’s words, grabbing his shoulders.

‘No, Deacy, you are not going near her.’ 

‘She needs to know I didn’t mean it!’ He backs away from Freddie, glancing over at me. ‘Roger, please.’

 _She’ll get angry_.

‘Okay.’ My friends glower at me as John walks out, the basement door slamming. Black painted fingernails land on my shoulder, narrowed brown eyes burning into me.

‘The fuck did you say that for?’ 

It takes a while, but I eventually convince Brian and Freddie to do as John said, and continue with the album. The electric piano is still out, Freddie scrunching his face up at it and plinking one of the keys.

‘I hate these things.’ He muses, pootling around on it a lot for someone so disgusted. _Hang on_.

  
‘That thing stopped working!’ I gasp, as it finally clicks. ‘Laurel.’

‘Why was this monstrosity out?’ Trust Freddie to change the subject. 

‘John wrote something. It’s a pop song, I hate it-’

‘Oh! Sounds marvellous, I must hear it.’ I roll my eyes, gazing at my friend, my eyes stinging again. ‘Also, Paul told me we are getting a harp.’

‘Paul’s going to love Laurel.’ Brian groans.

‘He won’t mention it.’ Freddie smiles, a little. ‘Paul’s not as bad as you think when you get to know him. Be nice about him!’

 _Be nice about her_. I shake that thought off. Yes, I find Paul odious however he’s not comparable with Laurel. 

John’s still in the basement when we finish in the studio, everything thankfully quiet. Well, at least I hope that’s a good sign. What am I saying – course it’s not a good sign, it’s a sign Laurel’s hold over John’s still strong and that we’re not any closer to getting him back.   
It’s a miracle I manage to sleep, and a surprise to wake up to a fresh smelling, boiling room. John was stuck with her all night. The gentle chatter downstairs settles me a little, along with the sound and smell of breakfast being made. 

As I head downstairs, I realise the radio’s on, and that John’s the only one up. _That’s progress._

‘Morning John.’ I smile, hugging his waist and kissing his cheek. He squeals, batting me away.

‘Not in front of her!’ He hisses. Nodding, I leave him alone, taking a breath. ‘You understand?’

‘Yeah.’ I reach for his hand, then remember. Small steps, Roger... be slow.

Soon, Brian and Freddie come down, the latter getting straight to the point.

‘Deacy, we’re going to do your song today, dear.’ 

  
‘I don’t have a song’ John denies, looking at me for back-up. 

‘You do.’ Brian murmurs, sighing. ‘Freddie, is it a good idea? The studio seems to be where it all happens.’

‘There’s more than one!’ Freddie tires to laugh him off, patting John’s shoulder. ‘Please, I must hear what Roger hates so much. You know I love seeing him squirm.’

After much persuasion, Freddie and I eventually make John show us his creation. The singer watches on like a proud parent as the dollar signs go up in Brian’s eyes. I focus more on the temperature and smell of the room, waiting for it to drop and shit to float in.

‘Oh, here you all are!’ Paul grins, bursting into the room. ‘Hello John, wasn’t expecting you.’  
I’m about to lunge at him, but Brian steps in.

‘He is part of the band.’ He snaps, as John abruptly stops playing. ‘And if he wasn’t _so self-deprecating_ will be our secret weapon.’

‘We’re keeping him?’

Brian and I freeze, glaring at the smug man at the door as Freddie turns around.

  
‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, what?’

‘Come on!’ Paul scoffs. ‘His paranoid antics are slowing us down, stressing us out and what for? He’s an attention seeking little brat – he’s stealing your job Roger!’

‘Say that again.’ Freddie growls, striding over to him. 

‘What? That Deacy’s-’

‘Don’t call him that.’ I yell. ‘That’s Bri and Freddie’s name for him.’

‘Roger, my name for _him_ is... what was it? Oh yes, _Laurel.’_

John spins in his seat, staring at Paul in horror.

  
‘Don’t mock her.’ 

‘Why not? Oh yes I’ll make her angry.’ Paul laughs as I stand in front of John. ‘Yeah, Roger will protect you from the nasty lady ghost. _Lady._ Is Roger not enough for you John?’

  
‘Shut up!’ I scream.

‘Paul, stop talking about her. She doesn’t like it.’

‘What’s she going to do? What are you going to do Laurel?’

‘Get away from him!’ John stands, pushing past me before Freddie stops him.

‘What is it darling?’

‘LAUREL? COME OUT!’

‘Laurel _stop!’_

  
‘Paul, listen to him.’ Freddie begs, shivering as he holds onto John. Pulling his shirt over his face, Brian joins the two, holding out his hand to pull me over. 

‘Is that her?’ He shudders, gagging behind the shirt. 

‘COME OUT LAUREL. WHERE-’

Paul tenses. Turning to the doorway, he stretches out his hand, gasping as he presses it against something.

‘Don’t touch her!’

John’s too late. Before any of us can react, Paul curses and draws back his fist. 

  
_She’ll get angry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I like the italics button.  
> The next chapter is the one where I questioned my sanity planning it.


	9. Barn.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I honestly don’t know where this came from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Injury and death related to farm equipment.

Paul’s fist smacks against something, his face twisting in horror. Two screams fill the studio as John lunges forward, Freddie grabbing him by the waist.

  
‘Paul, dear, did you hit her?’ 

‘Yes, he’s hurt her!’ John glares at the man by the door. ‘Get away from her.’

‘Where is the bitch?’ Paul looks around, flailing his arms, one stalling in the air, John crying for him to stop. ‘Oh, _there_ you are.’

The room begins to stink, worse than usual – John’s cries becoming shrieks as Paul wraps his fingers around something, dragging it back.

  
‘What am I ripping her dress?’ He chuckles, John shaking his head at the assistant and screwing his eyes shut. Paul reaches for Laurel again, Freddie pushing a frozen John to me. 

‘You can’t see what you’re doing to her...’ He takes Paul’s wrist, tremoring. ‘Deacy can.’

‘But he’s not telling us anything. Anyway, she’s already dead.’

  
‘We know that from the smell.’ Brian mutters, sending John a sympathetic look, my partner having leant against me as he stares at Laurel. ‘Paul look at him.’  
I wrap an arm around John as Freddie tugs on his assistant’s wrist.

‘Come on, let go of her and I’m sure Deacy can encourage Laurel not to take-’

  
Breaking from my grasp, John dashes towards the two at the door. Brian and I manage to stop him, as Paul is pushed back into Freddie, blood streaming out of his nose. Our friend backs away from him, one hand on John’s chest. 

Punching something – Laurel – again, Paul grasps hold of her, growling.

‘You’ll pay for that!’

He kicks the door open, John screaming. Freddie grabs my hand.

‘Bri, do _not_ let him leave!’ He drags me to the door, the two of us breaking into a sprint as Brian clings to John. We follow the smell, Paul’s pounding footsteps and head outside, something dawning on me. 

  
‘We left an already petrified man on the brink of a breakdown with the one of us three he’s never liked...’ 

_‘Fuck!’_ Freddie runs his hand through his hair. ‘And Deacy’s stronger than Bri.’

Before either of us can act, a screechy rumbling coming from the other side of the house. That was Paul’s Rover. _She died in a car accident._

  
So, she’s not just angry, she’s angry and in the thing that put her in this situation. 

  
Freddie and I yell for Paul as we get to the drive, the Rover roaring towards us. 

‘Paul?’ I shove Freddie out of the car’s path, figuring who’s _not_ driving, and head over to Brian’s Jag.

  
‘Fred, over here!’ The Rover spins around, barrelling towards my friend. _‘Freddie!’_

  
He scrambles to me, the Rover skidding round the side of the house, knocking the back end against the brick. No wonder she died in that Nissan... _perfect._  
I clamber through the car window, helping Freddie through before searching through the glovebox. Please say it’s still there. My fingers trace over warm metal, as low growls get louder. I set my sight on the path out the grounds, the hyperventilating man in passenger seat yelling at me.

  
‘Where are we going?’

‘She’s a shit driver, I’m not.’

 _‘Roger!’_

I look to my left, slamming my foot down as Laurel comes speeding towards us. Washboard gravel sends dust around the car, across the windscreen before the shadow of a barn looms at the top.

  
‘Freddie... if this goes wrong...’ He slowly looks over to me, shaking his head. ‘John loves you. More than me.’

  
My friend nods, gripping the seat, glaring at Laurel in the mirror. We reach the barn and I direct us towards its bolted doors. 

‘Roger, stop!’ I don’t stop, I carry on towards the doors, Laurel on my tail. 

As Freddie screams for his mother, I swing the Jag to the right, hard and sharp. Laurel doesn’t. The Rover ploughs into the doors, its bonnet crumpling up as the sound of glass smashing echoes across the farm; along with Paul’s shouts. 

‘Are you mad?’ Freddie slaps my arm, yanking the door handle. ‘Why did-’

‘ _Don’t get ou_ t.’ I hiss. ‘In case it didn’t work.’ He stares at me. ‘If she has ‘feelings’ she might have a brain. Might be able to kill her.’

  
‘She’s already dead.’ Diving out the window, Freddie rushes to the barn. ‘Paul?’

  
He pushes a door open, its screeches making me duck back into the car. My friend calls out for Paul again, stepping out of sight whilst a car door slams shuts. 

One of the Rover’s doors.

‘Paul-’ There’s a cry of pain.

‘Freddie?’ My voice is joined by two more. Brian helps me out the Jag, doused in sweat and panting in the heat. ‘What’s... hang on...’

‘Laurel’s in there with Fred.’ I push past him, bolting into the dim barn, unable to make anything out. Something growls at the back of the barn, the crackling of gravel amplified by the vastness of the building. ‘Bri, can you see anything?’

  
‘Wait!’ The other door opens, sunlight pouring in and blinding me. ‘ _What the fuck’s that_?’

  
Metal spikes emerge from the haze and they’re heading straight for me. I back up, gaze locked on the empty driver’s seat in the tractor, two of the spikes grazing over my shoulders. There’s a bang. They’ve pierced the barn walls, punctured my shirt, trapped me against the wall. 

  
There’re shouts of my name, and screams of Brian’s. Then the spikes retract, the vehicle reversing and jittering.

She’s coming back.

I duck down, as there’s another bang from the wall and crawl to the barn doors, towards a pair of beige platforms. Before I get there though, John breaks into a run, screaming.

‘Get out!’ He grabs my arm and drags me out the way of the tractor as it rams into another wall. ‘Laurel- _wait,_ where’s Freddie?’

  
‘Up here!’ Freddie stares down from the second floor of the barn, beckoning. ‘Rog, come up.’ The vehicle reverses, swinging its spikes around to us. ‘ _The three of you_ – _UP!’_

  
I take John’s hand and dash to the ladder, glancing around the barn.

‘Brian?’ I can’t see him anywhere. _‘Brian?’_

‘In here.’ He’s in the vehicle, leaning over to the driver’s side, wrestling with the controls as it careers towards John and I. _‘I can’t stop it.’_

  
‘Roger go up.’ John pushes me to the ladder. ‘She’ll stop if it’s me.’   
‘No, I’m-’  
‘Roger, _please.’_ He begs, the vehicle moments from stabbing us. ‘ _Roger_!’

  
He pushes me again and I scramble up the ladder, Freddie reaching down for me. John’s right – she does stop for him, the spears just nudging my partner’s hair.

‘Thank you Laurel.’ He says, calmly, stepping away from the tractor. ‘Brian get out. ’Our friend nods, clambering out the vehicle and heading to John, the spikes inching forward. ‘LAUREL!’

  
It stops again, the rumbling winding down as Brian backs away from John. 

  
‘What now?’ I turn around in surprise at Paul’s voice. ‘I was in the back seat, braced.’

‘Deacy, where is she now?’ Brian drags John back further from the vehicle. ‘Deacy?’  
‘Bri, get up the ladder – _now.’_

  
A crackling whir begins, joined by gritty, deep growling. I’m dragged back by Paul whilst Freddie holds out his hands for Brian, the guitarist shouting back for John.

  
‘Where is he?’ I dash back to the edge, only to see a cylinder of rotating red blades beneath me. ‘John?’ 

‘I’m here. get back!’ John clambers onto the ledge, side-eyeing the combine. ‘ _She’ll kill you_ , GET BACK!’

  
‘What about you?’ I try to drag him away but Brian backs Freddie and I towards the wall. 

‘He knows her.’ He wraps an arm around me. ‘I hope.’

My gaze never leaves my partner, as he removes his platforms and stands right on the edge. He’s directly above the spinning combine.

‘Laurel.’ John holds out his hand. ‘You said I’m yours.’

_‘Deacy.’_

‘Quiet Freddie!’ John closes his hand around.... someone else’s. ‘Laurel, please leave them, don’t hurt them. If you want me so much, why not just take me?’ No, no, no. ‘They won’t be.... why is it them you want to kill? Not me?’

  
I’m about to yell at him, tell him to get back, but Paul sprints forward. John screeches as his arm is grabbed, Paul pulling him back to us. He struggles against him, letting out hysterical cries as the sound of the combine stops and starts. 

  
‘Laurel – SHE’S – _LAUREL’_

  
The stench of decay strengthens. Paul let’s go of John, the brunette running to the edge.

‘John, no.’ Freddie and I catch him, but not before he’s looked down. He freezes, eye’s fixed on the combine’s reel grinding to a halt. I slam my hand over his eyes, not wanting to think about what he’s seeing. ‘Someone stop that.’ 

Brian nods at Freddie, pulling his shirt over his mouth and heads back down. John leans back against me.

‘Can I get out of here?’ He whimpers. ‘She’s not a quiet crier.’

John avoids us for the rest of the day, locking himself in the basement. We don’t try and get him out, Brian ordering Freddie to guard the door whilst I was ushered into his bedroom and found myself breaking down in his arms again. Freddie moved a sofa to the basement door, making up a bed for me and during the night came down to top-and-tail, telling me he thought he heard me or John crying. Neither of us sleep, instead talk quietly about what we’re meant to do now.

‘I called Miami yesterday, before...’ He glances down at the scratches on his arm. 

‘What did he say?’

‘He said he’d come down when he can – all I said was that Deacy was having a tough time and we weren’t getting anything done. He said it might be an idea to take a small break and when we do get back, involve him a bit more. Do we push him out?’

‘No, he likes working on his stuff alone – you know that.’

‘What about _Love Of My Life_ then? My stuff – the stuff he likes, I’m his favourite.’ Freddie raises his voice a little at that. ‘Or we can lock Brian out the studio and us three piss about for a good half an hour’ 

  
‘We’re not going to get him working anytime soon. John’s watched Laurel die twice now, Fred.’,

‘But now she’s gone for good, she can’t keep manipulating him. And if Paul hadn’t killed her, Deacy would be-’

‘The damage is done.’ I cut him off, not wanting to think of what could’ve been. ‘He thinks Laurel was good, _yes_ said he hated her once but Laurel’s disturbed him! He watched her get mangled, then rot, then minced.’ 

  
‘Keep your voice down!’ My friend kicks me under the blanket. ‘Let’s leave work alone for a few days, see how Deacy gets on. If he gets any better, we’ll start work again - gets worse, we’ll postpone the album and get him help.’

‘Freddie it took John being attacked for you to believe us.’ He looks to the ground, sniffing. ‘Sorry. Yeah, let’s stop work for a while and see how it goes. It’s just John we need to focus on now, Laurel can’t do anymore.’

‘Roger, dear, I’ll happily dedicate years to Deacy.’

Not a single noise comes from the basement all night, and by the morning Freddie and I already have a rota set up for the next few days titled ‘Deacon Watch Duty.’ We explain it to Brian when he comes downstairs, after a brief argument over why none of us have checked on John yet.

‘So today, whilst you spy on Deacy, Roger and I get rid of evidence Laurel existed?’  
Freddie nods, as the basement door opens, John staring at the sofa bed in surprise.

  
‘Sorry, darling, didn’t want to be too far.’ Freddie steps over to him as I reach for my partners hand. Shaking his head, John pushes past us and into the living room.

‘Deacy?’

We follow him, Brian motioning for us to stay behind the door as John fiddles with the phone. 

‘Miami... yes it’s John.... I’m okay but the other three – and Paul – won’t be... they’re not safe here.... they’re not safe around me... yeah, send a car please.... no, just for me.... Miami, please... if I stay near them any longer, they’ll.... I can’t be here anymore, it’s not safe for them... no... _Jim_ , I’m leaving.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll never listen to The Wurzels again. 
> 
> I like this chapter.


	10. Basement.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How much dialogue can one get in a chapter...? And how many of these...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Injury, talk about death, referenced attack.

‘What do you mean, leaving?’ 

  
Freddie scares John half to death as he runs in. A confused sounding Miami is cut off after John slams the phone back down, then backing up against a fireplace. 

‘Deacy, what do you mean?’ Freddie repeats. ‘Leaving the farm, leaving us? A few days or forever? Roger and I were just talking about putting everything on hold for you.’ He reaches for John. ‘You don’t need to leave. Why do you think you-’

‘Get out, now!’ John glances between the singer and Brian and I, shuffling further away. _‘Out!’_

  
‘Why? What is it, darling?’ 

‘Get out.’ John repeats staring at me, pleading. ‘You can’t come near me.’ 

‘Okay.’ I hold my hands up. ‘Wasn’t going to... but I’m not leaving.’ 

John buries his hands in his hair, turning away from the three of us. The door clicks shut, Brian leaning back against it.

‘Neither are you, Deacy.’ He adds. Immediately, John spins back around. 

‘No, no, _no, NO.’_ He brings his hands down, grasping chunks of dusty, knotted hair, eliciting a gasp from Freddie. ‘Get out, _get out.’_

  
‘Okay, can everyone just stop.’ I snap, glaring at my two friends. Still shaken, Freddie perches on an armchair whilst Brian stares at the ground, sighing. ‘John, what do you mean leave? The farm or us three?’ 

‘Both.’ He murmurs. ‘Laurel... it’s _Laurel.’_

Of course, he’d want to get out of here – away from us. We ‘killed’ Laurel, and now she’s a couple of hundred yards away in a combine harvester. But going without the rest of us? Without me?

  
‘I know watching...’ I hesitate when he snivels, eyes turning glassy. ‘Watching that happen to her, must have been... but, John, you need be with someone. We can leave for a bit but, with one of us.’

‘It’s not for a bit.’ John finally looks me in the eye, making everything hit much harder. ‘I won’t see you again until she says I can. So never again.’

No one says a word. Freddie remains in the chair, frozen still, across from the sofa Brian and I sit on. I’m the only one looking at anyone else, John’s attention firmly placed on the opposite wall. _She says I can. Never again_. Well, it will be never, she’s dead again! He hugs his waist as he huddles against the wall, his black sleeves riding up to reveal long, fresh scratches along his arms. Very fresh. As if only from ten or fifteen minutes ago. 

  
His shirt’s a mess. Crumpled and dirty, a few scuffs up one side – the little stars and diamonds around the neck faded and peeling off. He sniffles again, a single tear dropping onto his scratched arm, leaving a cloudy splodge against the red and purple marks. _Cloudy._

  
‘John are you wearing make-up?’ I inquire, the other three leaping out their skin. ‘Sorry...’ I trail as I look up at John who’s clutching his cheek, breaths erratic. Then he brings his hand away, wincing. ‘Oh _fuck_.’

  
It’s not the graze covering one side of his face that worries me – but the clumps of make-up sinking into the open cuts and clinging to the dried blood. The tears running into them can’t help either. 

‘Don’t... don’t do any... don’t do anything.’ John stutters, rubbing his cheek.

‘You’ll make it worse!’ I hold my hand up, John ignoring me and bringing his shirt up to his face. Behind me, there’s a small cry, pitying almost. Then I look down to John’s exposed stomach, the purple splotches; some new some old. ‘That _bitch.’_

He shushes me, waving his hands. I’m about to retort – tell him, exactly what I think of Laurel, even if she is dead – but Brian says something. Something worse.

  
‘She’s still alive...’ Freddie and I turn to the guitarist, a chill descending on the room. ‘Well, not _alive_ but, still here.’

We turn back to John who’s staring into the corner. 

  
‘Is she there, Deacy?’

He says nothing, instead nods slowly.

‘Laurel’s... Laurel, she’s... she’s in the corner?’ Freddie stammers. 

Another nod. The four of us fall silent again, all looking to the corner.  
I’m glad we can’t see her – from John’s widened eyes and the shudders it’s clear she’s got worse. And I’ve just called her a bitch again... as I did before the cupboard.

‘Is she staying there?’ I growl, glaring at the corner. ‘Staying back?’

‘I don’t know... are you?’ 

Freddie sniffs as John talks to Laurel. It’s hushed whispers and many shakes of the head, eyes still filled with tears and his whole body shaking. He’s hyperventilating. His eyes dart between the three of us and Laurel. His balance beginning to fail. His-

‘John.’ Brian pats the seat next to him, grabbing our attention. ‘You know you can trust me, right?’ John doesn’t answer. ‘Talk to me, Deacy.’

My partner’s breaths hitch as he steps over to Brian, glancing back to Laurel.

‘Is-’

‘Not her!’ Brian taps John’s arm. ‘Talk to me, not her.’

He sits between Brian and I, shrinking back as Freddie scoots the armchair forward, leaning in. I gesture for him to back off a little, John grasping my hand, his head rests on my shoulder. 

‘What... what do you want me to say?’ He tries to face Laurel again but Brian stops him. ‘How she died, what she’s saying, what-’ letting out a pained cry, John jolts, batting his shoulder. Brian and I edge back, John clinging onto me even tighter. His shirt’s crumped at the shoulder, hair pushed up. ‘She doesn’t want-’

‘What day was it?’ I ask, snaking my arm around his shoulders. ‘What day did she die?’

He pouts slightly, not looking any of us in the eye before nodding. 

‘22nd May, sometime around midnight. It was after I left to... left you three in the studio...’

_What did we do_? Every day in the studio – up until recently – has merged into one, so I can’t pick out which session was on that day. The day John needed me most. Was it the time where Brian spent ages shouting at Freddie and I for fighting over the maracas instead of working?  
It _was._ It was the last day we were rehearsing in a barn somewhere, throwing ideas around and being general cocks. Freddie and I were about to throw punches when Brian barged in bellowing that I should be with him and John to do a ‘really good idea’ he had. But we couldn’t find John. We’d presumed he’d gone home early; he does that when he can’t be arsed to listen to us three argue. Nothing felt wrong, not whilst Brian and I proceeded to fight over fighting.

Now we’ve got our terrified bandmate between us, hanging onto my arm with bruises covering his. 

‘I walked didn’t drive,’ John continues, ‘went into this little town and...’ He shivers. ‘I hung around on the street for a while, stopped by a lamp post.’ 

‘The one she hit?’ 

‘I got out the way, her lights weren’t on but the Datsun sounded... _unhealthy.’_

  
I picture everything I’ve never wanted to see. John leant against that post, in the middle of the night and a Nissan Laurel hurtling towards him. Only in the nightmare I’m envisaging, he doesn’t get out the way. _Forget that image, forget that image._

‘She couldn’t have had her belt on, and I heard her... crying, so loudly. A couple came running over, the bloke looked in the car – shouted that she was... she was dead.’

After a moment of silence, John chokes, another stream of tears coming.   
‘The woman he was with, she tried to speak to me. So did one of the medics when they arrived. When they’d concluded I was okay they told me to go home...’ He jerks again, glancing over his shoulder. ‘They found an empty bottle of wine in the car; didn’t think I was to blame’

‘Didn’t _think?’_ Freddie echoes, growling. ‘You’re completely innocent! Just stopped for a moment, how were you supposed to know she’d come careering out the darkness?’

John shrieks as his head is pulled back.

‘Laurel, _Laurel,_ I’m sorry.’ He shakes her off, glaring at Freddie. ‘It was _ME_ not _her.’_

‘How was it?’ Brian bats his arm. ‘She was dead the second she got in a car at 12AM with no lights on and a bottle of wine down her.’

‘I had time to run forward.’ John stares into his lap. ‘She’d have braked. She said she’d have stopped if I stayed stood there.’

‘But Deacy,’ Freddie sighs, ‘you’d have got hurt.’

‘He got hurt moving out the way, too.’ I snap as John rests his head on my chest. I bring his hair over his shoulder, out of Laurel’s reach. ‘Then what did you do?’

‘Went home.’ 

It clicks. After finishing mine, Freddie and Brian’s arguing tournament, I’d gone back to Kensington, drowning out the sound of the maracas in the glovebox by blasting a dismal Radio 2 show, on my own. Again, at the time I thought nothing of it, then back home I found John asleep in the guest bedroom. He disappeared the next day, and the morning after that, I woke up to the knocking noises. 

‘The next day I took your Alfa, Roger, left flowers across from where she died. Her car was still there and I said I was sorry. That I should’ve helped. Then I got in the Alfa again, started crying.’ He cuddles closer, practically in my lap as his shivers become violent. ‘Then she put her hand on my shoulder... her face was cut, her _hands_ and arms-’

‘Okay, darling.’ Freddie waves his hand, taking a shaky breath. ‘Then what did she do? The week you were alone with Rog, what happened?’ 

‘I should show her how sorry and be hers now that’s she’s alone. We talked for a while. She was really nice...’ He pauses, looking up at me. ‘Then she found out about you, Freddie and Brian. You called me once, Freddie, and when I answered she screamed at me, started crying.’ He meets Freddie’s eyes, wincing. Brian nudges John, the brunette turning to him.

‘And me?’

‘She really hates- she didn’t understand why I liked you three more than her. Said I always smiled when I talked about you but wouldn’t talk to her like a normal person.’

‘You don’t talk to us like a normal person.’ Freddie deadpans, clearing his throat. ‘She didn’t want you to be happy?’

‘Not anymore.’ John stands, gazing up at Laurel. ‘Sorry.’

‘Us three used to make you happy?’ Freddie continues, getting up too. 

‘She doesn’t like it when I'm happy. Or safe, or _anything_ I...’ He hesitates, pushing something off him. ‘Anything I want to be. I want her to let me be with you three but... you can’t see her when she cries- Laurel I’m sorry.’

  
‘Is she crying now?’ Brian asks.

‘Yes. She’s... _no,_ Laurel I didn’t mean it like that!’ John holds his hands out, pleading. ‘No, you are!’ _Get away from him, Laurel_. ‘It’s not that I don’t like you it’s- _no,_ I didn’t make Paul push you.’

  
‘By the way, Paul's fine and as-'

‘Fred, he’s not what we’re worried about!’ I snap, sensing an opportunity. ‘Oh and, Laurel, Prenter _chose_ to push you.’

  
‘Roger don’t!’ John pleads, wincing. ‘I didn’t, Laurel, I _didn’t.’_ Can’t she just leave him? _‘Laurel-’_

‘How fast can she run?’ I interrupt, taking his arm. 

‘She can’t, she’s missing a lot now-’ John barely finishes before I pull him to the door, slamming it behind us. ‘You left Fred and Bri with her!’

  
The door flings open, Brian and Freddie tumbling out and I leap over, closing it again. I press myself against it, clinging to the rattling handle. Brian joins me as Freddie leads John away, the guitarist and I holding the doorknob still. 

  
‘Let go of the door, you pathetic bitch,’ I snarl, as the banging on the door ceases. ‘Yeah, piss off, you’re pathetic.’

‘Couldn’t even succeed in making three self-centred knobs with their heads firmly planted up their arses leave the world’s most self-deprecating little shit.’ Brian mutters ‘Keep your eye on the door. Back in five minutes.’ He hisses, then almost shouting. ‘By the way, John’s gone to the basement again... she apparently wanted him down there.’

I narrow my eyes at him as he walks away, before turning my attention back to the door.

‘Scared of me, Laurel?’ I smirk, tapping my fingers on the door. ‘I _love_ John. Something you’ll _never_ do!’ 

  
Down the hall there’s metal scratching on metal – Brian’s fiddling with the lock on the basement. He glances over, winking, and removes the lock. 

_‘Freddie!’_ He yells, peering up the stairs. ‘Freddie get down here.’

  
The doorknob rattles again as the singer comes downstairs, questioning our friend. Ducking down to his height, Brian whispers something, Freddie’s eyes lighting up and a devilish smile spreading across his face. Laurel bangs on the door, the handle turning in my grasp, cold metal scraping over the healing gashes on my hands. I snatch my hand away, the door bursting open. 

It smacks me in the face, knocking me onto the freezing floorboards. Warmth runs down my chin, into my hair, as a metallic taste trickles towards my throat. I sit up, coughing and grasp my hair with bloodied hands, strong hands cupping my face.  
John’s hands.  
He studies my face, sighing and hesitating. 

‘I’m so sorry.’ He breathes, screaming when a door slams. Freddie pushes the sofa against the basement door, thumps coming from the other side whilst Brian setting about attaching the lock to the other side. ‘What have you done?’ 

They don’t answer, and we don’t need one.  
They’ve got her. _We’ve_ got her.  
 _You’re pathetic Laurel._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, two more chapters to go.


	11. Happiness?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the minor cringe in the middle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: If you've got this far, none of this is really that different.

John stares back at the basement door, his jaw clenched, breathing high-pitched and quickening with every moment. The two at the door haven’t noticed, Freddie sniggering with a rather smug Brian leant against the door. My face still stings, as if the door is still attached to it, as John slowly rises to his feet, reddened eyes burning into the basement.

  
Laurel bangs on the door. Scratching and wrestling with the handle. We’ve made her angry again – that’s two days in a row. This was a stupid idea.

‘Let her out.’ John flinches at another knock, one that I’m sure has broken something. It even gets Freddie’s attention.

 _‘Fuck,_ maybe step away.’ He laughs, nervous this time.

‘She needs letting out!’ John pleads, taking a step forward before pausing. He glares at Brian, stepping back over me. ‘I’m not that stupid.’

‘What do...’ Brian trails as he glances between John and the door lock. ‘What do you think I’m going to do?’

‘Bri, let her out.’ I sigh, the hallway turning to static as I stand. My hand lands on John’s shoulder, his hand flying up and clinging to mine. Is it John’s hand? A regain of focus confirms it is, but that doesn’t stop the disconcertion and tension in the hall. The door’s unlocked; the handle jostling. _‘No!_ Close it.’  
Too late.

John huddles closer and I hope Freddie will react and slam the door that’s inching open. 

  
_‘Paul,_ where are you?’ Freddie screams up the stairs, then proceeding to bolt up them. _‘Paul?’_

There’s a tug on my arm, the door swinging further before John and I rush up the stairs too. He glances back down to the basement every second, screaming when there’s a slam.

  
‘Got her again.’ Brian nods, slipping the bolt closed. Lock.   
‘Take the lock off and fucking get up here!’ I snap. 

Grasping John’s hand, I look between the doors, listening out for Freddie. 

‘Wait, Deacy!’ Oh, there he is. John must have twigged what I’m planning, and heads for Freddie’s door.

Then there’s footsteps. I spin around, motioning for Brian to hurry up as he takes the stairs two at a time. He shoves me towards the door, Laurel pounding up the stairs behind us.

‘Did you bring the lock?’ 

My question is drowned out by the door slamming after we barge through it. I hold it whilst the lock is hammered into the door, the bangs replicating the ones coming from the other side. Another body presses against the door, next to me with his hands above our heads, a fuzzy armpit being shoved in my face. Instantly, I turn away from the beads of sweat clinging to the hairs, to where Freddie’s enveloped John in his arms, the look on his face making it hard to tell who’s comforting who. 

‘Done it!’ Brian slides the bolt shut, pulling me back from the door. Paul remains plastered against it, raspy but squeaking breaths joining the knocks from Laurel. ‘Prenter!’

‘No stay there!’ Twisting my fingers into Prenter’s shirt, I unlock the door. 

_‘Perfect.’_ Brian opens the door a little, the two of us ignoring Freddie and Paul’s protests. 

I raise my leg, driving my knee into Paul’s back and shove him forward. Brian smacks the door against him, Paul screaming as the door locks.  
The four of us stand and listen to the commotion. Continuous, shrill shouts go on forever before the basement door crashes shut.

‘Roger...’ Freddie gasps. ‘What did you do that for?’

‘Well if she’s occupied with him, it keeps her away from John – all of us.’

‘He’s got a point, Fred.’ I stare at Brian; he agrees with me? ‘Anyway, what now?’

‘Will _she_ hurt Paul?’ Freddie asks, earning a scoff from me.

‘If she’s so desperate to hurt someone, make it be the one who doesn’t help.’ I reason, meeting John’s gaze. ‘What do you think?’ I get a shrug in response, Freddie finally letting go of him. ‘Freddie?’

‘I know we said we’d have a break...’ He begins, nudging John to get his attention. ‘Why don’t you show us that song again?

‘We haven’t locked ourselves up here to walk right back into her hands!’

‘She’s occupied with Paul right now,’ Freddie sneers at me, turning to John, ‘right?’

‘What about when we get hungry or need the toilet?’ Brian adds. ‘We can’t stay here!’

‘What else do you suggest?’

He walks out before I’ve finished my question, the rest of us running after him in a panic. With every step downstairs, my stare never leaves the basement door. It’s not locked anymore. She can get out.

John can get in.... no, Freddie and I are clinging to him too tightly for that. 

_What if she come out and tears him from us?_ Is she still here? There’s not a single noise, not even a shuffling of Paul being dragged along the basement floor or a shriek. Part of me longs for a knock, something to tell us where she is and when we need to run.  
Even outside and in the studio, I’m waiting for a noise, the smell, the cold. 

‘Has she followed us?’ Freddie asks. Good I’m not the only over thinker. I repeat his question when we get no answer.

‘Not yet.’

My discomfort at that doesn’t last for long as a scraping from behind nearly deafens me. Freddie finally lets go of John to help Brian create a barricade at the door, with a few speakers. By the time that’s done, John’s left the studio, platforms clacking in the distance. 

That’s how the next few days pan out – keep Laurel out of wherever John is whilst he disappears and the rest of us carry on with, what Freddie’s called _, A Night at the Opera_. Sure, it’s not ideal that we’re missing half of the rhythm section, but at least we’ve got a few ideas finished.   
Brian’s going to _hate_ what I’ve come up with. I could imagine his reaction last night, his protests against the speed. No, Brian will refuse to have anything to do with this, Freddie too, seeing as he’s so focused on the cowboy song he’s got.

  
‘No put more into it!’ I can hear him from across the hall. ‘Give it a bit more heart – _not like tha_ t, make it more – NO!’

  
Rolling my eyes, I nod at the engineer I’ve nabbed, getting no response. He finally snaps out of his thoughts when I clear my throat, the man – boy, he looks younger than John - looking up, confused.

‘Smelt something this morning.’ He muses before shaking his head. ‘Yeah, ready when you are, Roger. You don’t want Brian in on this?’  
‘He’s busy with Fred.’ I shrug, pushing into the studio and grabbing one of the guitars. ‘Ready when you are.’

My plan is to get my entire masterpiece done before anyone else sticks their oar in, possibly dragging John in when he’s ready so I have back up. Out of the three, he’s the most likely to understand what I’ve written. Understand why I haven’t asked for anyone’s ‘help.’

‘Sounds better.’ I glare at the boy behind the glass.  
‘No, it’s not there yet.’ I snap, wandering back out. ‘Where’s one from earlier? That wasn’t too far off–’

‘Rog?’ I turn to Brian in the doorway, my exasperated friend’s arms folded. ‘I’ve been shouted at by Freddie enough today, Roger.’   
He strides up to the desk, murmuring to the engineer before the hastily cobbled together track starts. His eyebrows raise, humming a little and stares at me expectant.   
‘What are the lyrics?’

I shove the small pile of papers into his chest, folding my arms.

‘You can say all you like; it’s going on the-’

‘Roger, you are the biggest knob I’ve ever met.’ Brian glares, getting one in return. ‘Look at what you’ve done.’ 

‘I know it’s not as ‘meaningful’ and ‘emotional’ as your stuff-’

‘It’s not that...’ He points at the title of my song. ‘Think about John.’

Realising what he means and screaming a string of words the engineer never knew existed, I run out of the room. I’m an idiot – what the fuck was I thinking? I only wrote it because I was missing my Alfa back home, why didn’t I think of _John_ who is in the same building as me. He’s still not over Laurel, and was I really about to show him a song about the thing that killed her? Yes, I was. 

  
I don’t even think about where I’m going, just burst through the next door in the hope the room’s empty. It isn’t. Freddie and another engineer – Roy or something - are in here. Freddie sits at the piano, playing a gentle melody, mumbling a few lyrics.   
Then I look behind him.

Perched on a stool, his gaze fixed on Freddie’s fingers, is John - both of them that deep in concentration they don’t falter at my dramatic entrance.  
John’s fingers hover around the twelfth fret on his bass, pouting slightly and staring at Freddie’s left hand. As he flows into the verse again, the distinctive sound of John Deacon begins, every note ringing perfectly and with impeccable timing as he immerses himself in his and Freddie’s playing. He pauses at some parts before continuing, a small grin creeping onto Freddie’s face. 

As he nears the end of the song, Freddie’s eye’s fall shut, tilting his head back and leaning into the piano. The door flies open, Brian charging in as Roy shushes him with a wave of his hand. He freezes, smiling at the two in front of us as Freddie’s hand slips, our friend smacking the keys with his fist.

 _‘Shit!’_ He whacks the piano again before turning to John. ‘Not you, darling, you were lovely... when did you come up with that?’  
‘I heard you play it a few times...’ John stares at the floor, hugging his bass. ‘When _she_ wasn’t listening.’

‘Did Laurel not like our music?’ Freddie asks. ‘The more I hear about her, the less I like her!’

There’s a heavy silence, Freddie putting his head in his hands as Roy looks between us, even more confused than the other guy. I step out of the way of the door, prepared for John to bolt out. 

‘No, she likes your stuff, Freddie.’ He states, surprising us all. ‘Doesn’t know it’s by you though, think’s you’re a ‘fraud.’ Stupid, really.’

I supress a snort, wishing this means what I think it does.

Because of the progress, Brian and Freddie decide we should focus on Love of my Life, John’s interest in the song growing more over the next few days. We finish it just as Paul emerges (unharmed, surprisingly) from the basement. So, Laurel’s on the prowl again, however that hasn’t impeded on John.   
He’s talking to Freddie again, accepting the hugs and mollycoddling and decided Freddie’s lap is the best place to sit and listen to one of Brian’s dreams. His friendship with Brian seems to be rebuilding, for instance when the guitarist reached for John’s fretting hand on the double bass, he received a glare and what sounded like a growl.

  
Then there’s me. John brought back his song – You’re my Best Friend – handing the three of us completed lyrics, the room going cold too. Laurel was back with us. At first, it seemed like everything we’d done was for nothing, and that we were back to square one. Then I saw an opportunity.  
Every fibre of my being didn’t want to sing that song, it’s really not my thing. I didn’t say anything, but John pretty much read my mind. As he was about to insist on changing again, I joined Brian and Freddie in the booth and the three of us went over the bloody thing until Freddie had stopped shouting about how shit he sounded. It was embarrassing, those lines, and not what I want on this album, but I did it.  
Why did I put myself through this? It’ll make John happy, sacrificing my dignity – show Laurel what makes you deserve someone like John.   
There’re still longing looks to the studio door, and some mornings I’ve woken up to him huddled against our locked door, talking to Laurel on the other side. He’s still there for her. 

He’s still Laurel’s.

She’s in the studio, now, in the corner it would seem. That’s where John’s looking as he stretches out on the sofa, narrowing his eyes. 

‘No, Bri, that’s just sad.’ Freddie huffs, frowning at Brian. ‘I’m not singing about bereaved spacemen.’  
‘Good job I’m singing it.’ Brian sighs, angrily hammering at a 12-string. ‘John, Rog, let’s have a run through. We’ve only got another week here.’  
‘And Ray wants _perfection.’_ I add, picking a bit of fluff off the tambourine. I’m about to count us in when John shoves the double bass back into its stand and spins on his heel.

‘Oh, _FUCK OFF LAUREL_ _l_!’ His scream makes the rest of us freeze, all staring at him, stunned. ‘Why? How am I _possibly_ being wasted here? If it hasn’t dawned on you yet, this is my _job._ I write, I play, I listen to these three, we release an album, that you keep _fucking_ interrupting. No, Laurel, we’re a band, of _course_ we argue. Of course, we hate each other, but y’know what, we love each other too. Some more than others, but a lot more than you ever will. I have Freddie to mother me, Brian to bitch at me, and Roger to love me. I. Don’t. Need. _You!’_

With that, the chill in the room vanishes, a studio door slamming. 

‘Oh, don’t cry, you’ll make it _better.’_ John scoffs, shaking his head before picking up the bass again.   
Brian, Freddie and I say nothing. We don’t even move. Glaring eyes dart between us before John shrugs, pouting at us.  
‘What?’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more to go.


	12. Goodnight.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not sure if I like what I’ve written or not, or if this even counts as horror, and I think I spent more time planning the bloody thing than I did writing. Not that I take this seriously or anything.

We finished at the farm just as the typical British autumn started. _Rain._ Each ‘shower’ lasting ten hours. The final straw was a small river of mud and sheep shit coming down the drive as we packed our things into Brian’s scratched Jag and the Rover Miami came down in.   
He wasn’t happy with us. Partly because of the smell in the house but mainly because we wouldn’t tell him what had taken so long. John didn’t want us to, and I just wanted to get out of the farm before more chickens got into the studio.

  
Ray wasn’t happy either, not as unhappy as Freddie was with him though.

 _‘‘Expensive’’_ and _‘nonsense.’’_ He huffs, leaning on the table I’m sat at. ‘Bet he’s not at a hundred guest ball with a number one.’

  
‘He is here.’ Brian points at the bar where a smug Ray sits, chatting with Reid. ‘And stop being so pretentious.’

‘You just wait until we’ve got a number one album, dear.’ Our friend wanders away from us before Freddie finishes. ‘Rude!’

I can’t act like I don’t agree about the number one. _A Night at the Opera_ was expensive and ridiculous in places and a massive risk – but _Bohemian Rhapsody_ was too - and we’ve got London’s elite gathered in this building to celebrate the album’s release. Just wish one person wasn’t invited.

  
‘How’s John?’ Paul leers at Freddie as he pushes between him and my seat. ‘Thought he was ‘progressing.’’

‘He is!’ Freddie smiles, not picking up on Paul’s tone. ‘Talking to me... all lovely again. He’s okay.’

He’s doubting his words; so am I. John’s changed – he doesn’t laugh as much as he did last year, and that fiery streak of his is burning out. Maybe, by next year this will change and what happened at the farm will be a horrible, distant memory, but until then I’m not saying the word ‘okay.’

‘One thing, the owners of the farmhouse and...’ Paul clears his throat, ’the house and _barn,_ said no damage was caused by us and the cheque Ray sent them is your kind of number Freddie.’ If you’re not talking to me, Paul, fucking leave. ‘They weren’t worried about anything we got up to, the fire wasn’t too-’

  
‘Wait, what do you mean a fire?’ I interrupt.

‘The basement had a small fire, electrical problems with damp or something.’ He shrugs. ‘Anyway, good news is, there were no smells and the only cold was from the weather.’

‘Okay, thanks darling.’ Freddie flashes me a smile before disappearing, into the crowd, Paul on his tail. He brandishes a lighter infront of my friend, Freddie gratefully taking it as Paul gawks at him.

‘It’s alright, we got rid of one parasite.’ John flops his jacket over a chair before sliding into the one opposite me. ‘We can get rid of _that.’_

I nearly choke on my champagne, John not even showing a smirk at his remark, just a cheeky little glint in his eyes. Yes, Paul is nowhere near as awful as _she_ was, but that makes it all a better insult to her.

  
That’s how the two of us talk about her now. Don’t say her name, or mention anything she did, just call her obscenities and names. It’s probably not a brilliant tactic, but it seems to help. 

  
Another step towards John being the prick I know and love, again. 

‘We could lock him in one of the toilets.’ I quip. 

‘About that, I bordered up the door at the farm, she’s there now.’ John snatches the glass of Moet I’ve poured for myself. ‘So, Freddie said Bo-’

‘Hold on, you prick.’ I sigh, pouring another as he hands mine back. ‘No, I mean changing the subject.’ He shrinks back a little, the farm still a difficult topic. ‘What are the... whatever they’re – the farmy people going to think of-

‘Left a note claiming I saw damp, but can we not talk about that?’ I nod as John raises his glass. ‘To me being a fighting prick.’

‘To you being a fighting prick.’ I clink my glass against his, pausing before taking a sip. ‘Be right back, stay here.’ 

‘Okay.’

Setting the glass down on the table, I dash towards the bathroom, fully aware John’s just snorted at me.

Not that I’m complaining. In fact, I’m relieved he’s laughing at something as stupid as me needing the loo, and that when Freddie nearly tripped over his massive silk scarf in the car park, he rushed to help then came over to me and burst into a fit of giggles.

‘Roger, is that you?’ Said singer calls from the neighbouring cubicle. ‘Have you managed to get Deacy to talk about _Best Friend_? I know we all hate Ray but he needs to put himself out there more.’

‘I’ll speak to him.’ I laugh, seeing as he’s talking about the same John that didn’t bat an eyelid when _You’re My Best Friend_ went down well with Ray, and he expects it has ‘excellent commercial potential.’ ‘It’s unlikely though, he’s quite happy hiding in the shadow of our number one.’

  
_‘My_ number one, you bastard!’ Freddie snaps as I exit the cubicle.

  
‘B-side!’ I grin, flicking on the tap at the sink. I confess, _I’m In Love with My Car_ wasn’t as good as Freddie’s masterpiece, but it was worthy. It’s just a song - fuck them. 

Then there’s a knock behind me. I switch off the tap and spin around, sighing when Freddie starts yelling. 

‘Roger, there’s no paper.’  
‘Alright, hang on.’ I smirk as he shouts again. ‘Hang on.’

Freddie nearly tears my hand off as I pass a few sheets of loo paper beneath the door. 

‘Thanks, dear!’  
‘Thank you for-’  
‘I can’t hear you!’ Freddie yells. Rolling my eyes, I reach back to the sink and turn the tap off.   
‘I said – thank you for making me a millionaire.’ 

‘Come off it, we’re not there yet.’ He comes out the cubicle, smiling at me. ‘And it should be me thanking you. You were there for Deacy, and still are...’ Freddie points at me, ‘but so am I. Remember, he’s my Deacy.’

I nod, flipping him off before heading back to the party, finding mine and John’s table. Our half empty glasses sit there, his blue velvet jacket draped neatly over his seat. I open a new bottle of Moet, refilling my glass and scan the room for John. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thank you for leaving kudos and commenting. Also, this is the most reads I’ve ever got so thank you (even if those were accidental or regrettable reads.)


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